


A Wrinkle in the Space-Time Fabric of the Cosmos

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: A version of Bruce and Diana are married, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Bruce and Clark are best friends, Bruce meets an alternate version of the Justice League, But not all sad, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Interdimensional Travel, Other, Some sad stuff, WonderBat (kind of), sketchy science, trigger warning: mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-06-08 18:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 54,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15249303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: While racing to Metropolis to rescue Superman from an unknown fate, Batman gets transported to an alternate dimension, where all he can trust is his instincts. There is a version of the Justice League here, but not all of his friends remain friends, and relationships have changed; apparently, his 'alternate' was married to Wonder Woman. As Bruce adjusts to this (maybe permanent) reality, what will he discover about it, and can he get home again?





	1. Not in Gotham Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovely readers! Before reading this fic, here are two things you should know. 
> 
> 1\. Please READ THE TAGS! There are mentions of suicide in this fic. There is also strong language used. If either of those bother you, here's your heads up.
> 
> 2\. I do not own any of these characters, DC Comics does. This fic's title is adapted from  _A Wrinkle in Time_  by Madeleine L'Engle.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce rushes to help a Superman in trouble... only, _he's_ the one who ends up in a bad situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Welcome to my AU.

Batman couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anxiety as he flew the jet towards Metropolis at a speed the Federal Aviation Administration would certainly deem ‘unsafe.’ During the initial descent into the city, he began to pick up more radio chatter, consisting of music and call-in talk shows. But Batman _also_ heard police scanner communications, hospital dispatches, and news reports. The needle on the Airspeed Indicator moved up another notch. 

Bruce Wayne was the first person in the room to see the shaky tv news footage, played on loop, of Metallo and Luthor fighting Superman. The ticker under the clip said that the pair of villains had detonated a bomb downtown in Gotham’s sister city. So, Bruce Wayne had excused himself from the board meeting, claiming to have a headache (whether this was hangover induced, he did not specify) and rushed home. 

This event concerned Batman for multiple reasons. Primarily, he had in mind the fact that both villains had had access to kryptonite in the past, and were never afraid to use it when they did. Additionally, Luthor wasn’t usually this reckless. That probably meant that somebody was pressuring him into it, and that was something not a lot of people could do. Another reason he was concerned was because Superman was… a friend. Not that he’d ever willingly admit that unless pressed by some dire circumstance. 

But suddenly, just as he was reaching downtown Metropolis— the smoke from the explosion rising up in great billows— a sort of… _wrinkle_ appeared. And then, it was as if somebody had pressed fast forward and sped up time. Now Batman was much closer to the buildings than he had been mere seconds ago. Not only that, he realized with alarm, but there were buildings he was flying towards that hadn’t _been_ there earlier. 

The proximity alarms started screaming. Batman cursed, and veered hard to the left to avoid the sudden, inexplicable obstacle course. But his maneuvering was not enough, and the jet’s right wing clipped a building, sending a jarring shudder through the vehicle. Though at least one engine was still functional, Bruce was forced to conclude that a crash now seemed unavoidable. Then the jet’s guidance systems beeped again. There was an incoming air strike. 

Bruce cursed again. He turned his head… and saw two anti-aircraft missiles heading his way. The fire from his decimated engine had heated the cabin, almost to an unbearable temperature. Batman found himself breaking out into a sweat behind the cowl. He also began picking up more g’s of force, which didn’t improve his situation. Bruce did a few quick mental calculations and determined that Metropolis Bay would be the best place for a crash. 

His heart-rate picked up speed and he suppressed the nausea blooming in his stomach. After selecting Metropolis Bay as his destination, Bruce put the controls on autopilot. He had to fight to stay conscious as the jet’s speed increased. Metropolis Bay was approaching rapidly, and he decided that it was time to bail out. 

Batman strapped himself into his seat with a repressed sense of finality— the odds were very low for his survival— and pressed the button. As his parachute opened, he saw the missiles hit his jet and watched it explode… and then saw the giant pieces of shrapnel heading his way. The last thought he had before a giant piece of jet loomed over him— probably part of the wing, he decided analytically—was, _this was unexpected_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love getting comments from my readers!


	2. Something Old, Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman sees an old friend, who he thought was dead. Bruce meets 'Dr.' Joker. Two worlds are about to collide.

Superman flew hastily towards the site of the explosion over Metropolis Bay. If eye-witness reports were to be believed, the Bat jet had been flying downtown, frighteningly close to buildings there. This was alarming for multiple reasons, the first being that Batman never— had never— come out during the day time, let alone in Metropolis. The second being that Batman was _dead_. So Superman couldn’t imagine why the jet, thought he doubted that was what it actually was, would be in his city. Still, despite the ache in his heart at the thought of his lost friend, Superman knew this warranted his full, professional attention. 

Then he saw the black-armor-covered body floating in the water and his invulnerable alien heart stopped. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Awareness returned slowly. First, he was conscious of the white ceiling over him. The beeping of a heart monitor. The itch of an i.v. line. The fuzzy sensation of painkillers. The starchy, cool stiffness of hospital sheets on his skin. _On his skin_ , which meant he did not have the suit on. He sat up abruptly, pushing away the sheets, and saw the cast on his right arm, a thick layer of bandages covering most of his torso, and another cast on his left ankle. Then Bruce felt the air on his face, which meant he did not have his mask on. 

A pang of worry, dulled by the miasma of drugs, went through him. It was a pleasant surprise to be alive, but what happened next depended on who had saved him. Additionally, there was still the question of what he had seen in Metropolis— the strange new additions and weird ‘time warp’ needed to be investigated, as this new phenomena could be a sign of temporal damage. Bruce’s mind spun with these thoughts and the beginnings of several plans, which all hinged on which person or persons had rescued him. But all that was interrupted when a horribly familiar voice said, “Oh, you’re awake.” Heart pounding, he turned his head toward the voice, needing to see if it were true. It was. 

The Joker was standing by his bed, and Bruce was completely defenseless and unmasked. And useless. Useless, useless, useless. A sharp alertness, fueled by adrenaline, blew away the fog of the painkillers. The adrenaline also sent a cold tingling sensation crashing through Bruce’s body. He simultaneously wanted to throw up and shiver. The sensation spread, and ended as a buzzing in his brain. A buzzing like a million hornets, stinging his thoughts, poisoning his ability to think, to find a way to _get away from the clown_. The buzzing wasn’t numbness, but panic. Panic and fear. Not fear for himself, although Bruce would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little apprehensive, but terror for his family. The Joker knew everything. He’d ruin Brucie Wayne, and drag Bruce and Batman down with him. 

The clown watched silently as the heart-rate monitor spiked. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Finally, the taut silence was broken when the clown said, “Welcome back, Batman. Just to let you know, we’re in the Justice League Infirmary, in Metropolis.” Bruce stayed silent, heart still racing. The adrenaline, by cutting through the painkillers, had uncaged the pain of his injuries. Despite this, he began forming a plan. 

It appeared the Joker was playing some sort of sick game with him, for he didn’t begin gloating about Batman’s capture, or about what he planned to do to him, or to Bruce’s family, or to the innocents of Gotham. Nor did he seem to be exhibiting any of his other usual behaviors. 

There was another oppressive silence. Joker clearly expected Batman to say something. Perhaps to beg for the lives of his children, for his identity. For his life. Bruce stayed quiet, staring at his enemy. But the Joker didn’t even look at him. No, instead, he observed the heart monitor, as if he knew how it operated and was concerned by it. But when the silence stretched and grew, the clown turned to Bruce again, concern in his eyes. Bruce’s Adam’s apple lurched as he swallowed uneasily at the look in those emerald eyes. 

The clown asked, “Bruce? Are you in pain? Tell me what hurts… we didn’t operate, but if something’s wrong, I need to know now.” And then he approached Bruce’s side and touched him, which made the heart monitor scream shrilly. Chilled, Bruce thought, _The clown knows my name. He knows my name, he knows my name, he knows my name, he knows my name, he knows my name, he knows my name_. 

Pushing aside his thoughts, which were still looping continuously over _he knows my name, he knows my name, he knows my name_ , Bruce hissed, “Don’t touch me, Joker. Whatever your sick plan is, Commissioner Gordon can stop you.” 

The Joker looked puzzled and said, “What are you talking about, Bruce? I think you’re delusional… I need to check you for a concussion.” 

He reached a hand out, and Bruce panicked. He shoved the Joker away from him, ripped off the heart monitor cables, and yanked at his i.v. He didn’t notice the blood dripping down his wrist. Joker ran towards him and tried to restrain him, so Bruce sank his fist into the clown’s gut. “Oof!” Joker said, sinking to the ground. Bruce scrambled out of bed and began limping as fast as he could out of the room. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Looking around, Bruce didn’t see any windows. So he had no way of confirming if he was still in Metropolis. He was fearful that he’d run into Harley Quinn or any of Joker’s other numerous henchmen, and each corner he stumbled around made his heart beat at a quick tempo: _tha-thumptha-thumptha-thump_. He continued down the long hall, but found it becoming increasingly difficult to walk without the suit to help shield his injuries. Just as he rounded another corner, he doubled over with a sharp gasp. 

“Batman!” called an incredulous voice, one which Bruce was glad to hear. Bruce spun, eyes wide. It was Superman. He briefly sagged against the wall, eyes closing out of sheer relief, but soon recovered himself, and opened his eyes again. The man of steel was floating in front of him, toes only a few inches off the ground. Now over his initial sense of relief, Bruce began to feel puzzled. 

Superman must have been looking for him… but then, how long had he been here? His injuries still felt fresh and he didn’t feel any residual weakness from being immobile for a long period of time. “Superman,” Bruce said urgently, “I need to get back to Gotham, to see what Joker’s planning there… and to check on Alfred and Damian. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but it seems like there’s some alien collusion involved— it almost felt like I was teleported here.” 

Superman raised an eyebrow and looked momentarily shocked. Bruce frowned but decided that the intricacies of Superman’s moods weren’t worth pondering right now. Then Clark extended his arms and replied, “Let me carry you, Batman. You’re in no condition to walk… and if people see you like this, it won’t be good.” 

Bruce growled to convey his displeasure, but accepted. He had little choice, really, because he didn’t know where the exits were, nor where his goddamned suit was, either. In his condition, it was better to have assistance from Superman. Most importantly, he wanted to get back to Gotham as quickly as possible, to check on his family and figure out what had happened to make him go AWOL for an unknown period of time. With his injuries, Bruce knew he couldn’t do it alone. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Superman flew down the corridor, Bruce noticed that they were heading back the way he had come. “Superman, the Joker is down the hall this way. I punched him, but he was still conscious when I escaped. Be careful— he’s unpredictable,” Bruce warned. Clark glanced at him and said nothing. Bruce frowned; that was unlike him. 

Then, as the door of the room he’d escaped from came into view, Bruce had a sudden, frightening realization. His stomach sank and a wave of dread washed over him. Superman was working with the Joker. Then that meant that whatever had been happening in Metropolis _had_ merited Batman’s attention, and was even more serious than Bruce had thought. Despite knowing that it would do no good, Bruce began squirming in Clark’s arms. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They entered the room, Superman ignoring Batman’s efforts to break free. When Bruce saw the Joker again, he couldn’t help but hiss, “How could you work with him? Snap out of it!” Superman looked at him, hurt in his eyes, but said nothing. He turned to the Joker, who was still performing his charade of being a concerned doctor. 

“Ah, I was wondering when I’d see him again. Still quite resourceful…” Joker said above Bruce’s head, to Superman. Superman nodded, placing Bruce back on the bed, holding him down with a hand on each shoulder. Since they didn’t seem intent on torturing him yet, Bruce sat calmly, hoping to gage the type of dynamic between his archenemy and best friend. Maybe he could discover if it was a form of kryptonite, or Poison Ivy’s pheromones, or some other unknown substance that was controlling Clark. Then he saw the needle the Joker was holding, and he resumed panicking. 

“Hold him still. I need a vein,” Joker said. Bruce swung out at him, and the Joker dodged. Superman grabbed him in a bear-hug and grasped Bruce’s left wrist with one hand. The Joker approached, needle in hand, and Bruce swung out his leg, hitting the man in the shin. Joker cursed, looking exasperatedly at Batman, and at Superman. 

“I said restrain him,” he reproached Superman. Clark responded by lifting Bruce up and tucking his legs underneath him. Then he floated back down to the bed and awkwardly half-sat on Bruce’s legs to keep him still, while continuing to bear-hug him. Bruce twitched in annoyance, but kept quiet, studying the Joker and whatever poison he was making— he had dropped the last needle in surprise. 

Finally, he approached the pair again with another needle. Clark once again held out one of Bruce’s wrists and the Joker took it in his own hand. Bruce felt nauseated and terrified; who knew what was in the needle currently gliding towards his vulnerable skin? The needle slid in with barely a jab and Joker depressed the fluid into Bruce’s veins. Then nothing happened… or at least, nothing happened yet. Bruce looked wildly between his archenemy and Superman, who both seemed to be waiting for something to happen. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few minutes later, Bruce realized what they were waiting for, as he began to feel very sleepy. They had sedated him. He blinked suddenly heavy eyelids and felt his body going limp in Clark’s arms. His head drooped forward suddenly, and he jerked it back up with a snap. But he was only human and couldn’t defy the laws of chemical reactions— the ones that dictated how drugs affected the human body. He felt himself being lowered onto the bed and felt the blankets being spread over him. Then he felt the pinch of the i.v. being inserted and felt the heart monitors attached to his chest. Then he lost the battle with his eyelids and knew no more.


	3. Mad World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce escapes and runs into someone else he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the song _Mad World_ , by Gary Jules.

Superman took another look at his supposed-to-be-dead best friend, and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Dr. Joker had gone off somewhere without Clark’s notice, probably to give Superman some privacy. The only sounds in the room were the beeping of the heart monitor, the deep _huh-huh_ of Bruce’s breathing, and the steady _thump-ta-thump-ta-thump-ta_ of his heartbeat. Although it felt as if his thoughts should be audible, the way they screamed in Clark’s head. He kept replaying the flash of utter of betrayal that had sparked in Batman’s eyes as Clark returned him to the Joker in his mind. _How could you, how could you, how could you?_ that look had screamed. A deep frown marred Superman’s perfect face, and he felt a gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach. 

But Clark didn’t understand why the man was so afraid of the Joker, seeing as he was one of the world’s best doctors and a long-time member of the Justice League— on Batman’s recommendation nonetheless. The Bruce he knew had never looked at him with that level of naked betrayal, had never accused Superman of misdeeds with his crystalline blue eyes, and never would. Because he was dead, and this Bruce was not from here. Clark had to acknowledge that maybe things were different where he came from. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After years of friendship with Batman, Superman had absorbed a few of his characteristics. For instance, he had learned to be more cautious, although admittedly, that was less a newly-acquired characteristic and more of a habit after years of Bruce’s haranguing him, and the league, about security. After he’d rescued this ‘Batman,’ Clark had had the Justice League scientists run DNA analysis of the two Bruce’s. It was a perfect match. After the test, Superman had them run it again. Even now, he could still picture the raspy growl, imagine his Bruce saying, _“Run it again. And then twice more. It’s better to take more time with it than to be caught with our pants down, Kent.”_ He found himself smiling bitterly. After the second test came back a match, Clark decided that was enough proof for him. He would never be as paranoid as Batman. He would never _be_ Batman. It felt a little like a betrayal, but that was ridiculous. 

If the DNA wasn’t proof enough, Clark argued with the Batman-in-his-head, then surely the fact that this Bruce seemed to be friends with Clark’s alternate— and _there_ was a weird idea— should be. It meant that this Batman was not a villain, which was a relief. But mostly, Clark was flabbergasted that he had the chance to see Bruce again. He smiled at his sleeping friend, even if it was a bit pinched with concern, and then left so the doctor could help this version of Batman heal. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next time Bruce came to, he was groggy, as if his mind were engulfed in a thick soup of drugs. The ceiling warped, bubbled, and after staring at the white blankness, he felt… floaty. Bruce blinked away the sensation and turned his focus to his body, but it was hard to feel _anything_ with the amount of drugs he was on. This brought a small grimace to his face and he let out a puff of air, frustrated. The floating feeling returned when he didn’t concentrate on staying present and Bruce worried that he’d fall asleep again if he didn’t change something. 

Sitting up brought some mental clarity, mostly because of the unpleasant nausea caused by the spinning of the room. The muted prickling of pain from his torso helped too. But it still took a few minutes for Bruce to focus on anything. As he reached for the i.v. to remove it, a handcuff stopped his movements. Bruce stared at it for a few minutes, at first in annoyance, and then with confusion, and then just at it. He sighed, and attempted to corral his thoughts back to finding a solution. But it was a bit like trying to get Damian and Tim to be in a room together for more than five minutes without fighting. Extremely difficult, but not impossible with sustained effort, and force. Detachedly, Bruce recognized that he was very high. He went to yank on the other wrist, but it too was restrained. His brow furrowed again. Then the Joker’s voice interrupted his thoughts. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked slowly and calmly. 

Bruce jumped, and felt a sharp, clarifying burst of anger. _When the hell had the clown arrived?_ It was creepy as fuck to be snuck-up-on by him. So despite, in fact, being very hungry, Bruce petulantly said, “No.” Joker sighed and walked slowly towards him. Bruce frowned again because the other man very obviously was trying not to frighten Bruce. _He was the goddamned Batman, and wasn’t afraid of any clown_. 

The Joker came to stand right in front of him. 

“Either you eat something, or I’ll sedate you again,” Joker threatened calmly. Bruce hesitated. Did he really want to be sedated again? But then, it would be just like the clown to withhold food until he was desperate enough to eat poisoned food (un)willingly. The drugs must have made Bruce’s emotions more transparent than normal because Joker interrupted his inner argument by saying, “Look, I know you’re confused… to be honest, we are too. But, if you’ll eat something, we can talk.” Bruce hesitated for one more second, but damn, these drugs made Joker sound very reasonable. 

“Fine,” he said shortly. 

Joker nodded at him and retreated, slowly again, thinking, _and all they’ll get from me is my name, rank, and serial number_. Clearly, this Batman was no less stubborn than this universe’s Batman had been. It was also disturbing to think about the type of man his own counterpart must be to elicit such an extreme response from any version of Batman. He walked to the fridge. He opened it slowly also and came back with a purple smoothie, with a straw. 

He approached Bruce, who was still a little uncertain about all this, and said, “It’s got spinach, blueberries, kale, and protein powder in it. You were lucky that the explosion didn’t do more damage. You can physically eat solid foods, but I don’t trust you not to act psychotic and hurt me— or yourself. So, I’ll feed you this and continue to restrain you until we get some answers.” 

An ironic smile twitched Bruce’s lips. The Joker, talking to him about being mentally unstable and psychotic. _Ha_. The Joker noticed his smile and arched an eyebrow questioningly. This was why he hated being drugged. Also, this whole ‘sane’ act the Joker had was rather creepy, especially when he could actually sneak up on Batman. But if Bruce had to ‘play ball’ to get answers, then so be it. 

Sincerely hoping that he wasn’t about to be poisoned, Bruce glared at the clown and asked, “Do I at least get to feed myself?” The Joker looked at him evenly, as if to say, ‘what do you think?' Bruce growled to himself. _Great_. Slowly, his arch nemesis came forward with the smoothie. Batman was ready. 

At first, he cooperated, swallowing some of the drink. But he was working on dislocating his thumb, so he could slip his left hand out of the cuffs when the time was right. As soon as he’d dislocated the digit— the pain was distant through the haze of drugs— he ‘dropped’ the straw, which caused the Joker to lean forward to retrieve it. Bruce head-butted the other man, who let out a shout of pain. Shakily, Batman removed the i.v. and freed his other hand with the emergency lock pick he kept in his sock. Then, he managed to evade a flailing clown, who was distracted by the nose bleed caused by Bruce’s head-butt. 

This time, Superman appeared to not be around because Bruce made it down the hall, weaving side to side until he developed a system of keeping one balancing hand on the wall. He ended up by a set of stairs, and paused at the top as they lurched before his eyes. Bruce silently debated the stairs, honestly a little doubtful he’d be able to make it down them without further injury. Before he could decide anything, Wonder Woman appeared. Bruce froze, hand gripping the railing as his legs went Jell-O like from surprise (and the drugs.) 

“Bruce!” she exclaimed, eyes as if she’d seen a ghost, “you’re not dead!” This made him pause. Everyone thought he was dead? How long exactly had he been unconscious for, then? But even more surprising was the fact that she immediately squeezed him, which hurt, even through the drugs, and burst into wrenching sobs. 

Bruce startled, eyes like saucers. It was enough to quiet Diana’s sobs. She looked up at his face and must have seen his dilated pupils. Or maybe it was the way he was swaying slightly. Or it could have been the casts, and bandages. Or the lack of a suit… and mask. “Diana,” he croaked, needing a break from her Amazonian strength. She sniffed once, and seemed to come to her senses. “How long have I been held here?” Batman asked seriously. 

Wonder Woman’s brow furrowed. “‘Held here,’ Bruce? What in Hera’s name are you talking about. You were _dead_ for three years. No one was holding you hostage, let alone in the League headquarters in Metropolis,” she commented. 

Bruce blinked, mind spinning. Dead. For three years! But there was no way he could still be this injured from something that had— hypothetically— occurred three years in the past. Also, Batman knew the Joker, and it was very out of character for him to do something that sinister without announcing that it was he who had done the deed to the world. 

He must have had a pretty _what the fuck_ look on his face, because Diana took a step back, and asked, hesitantly, “Bruce?” Bruce didn’t hear her, still laboring over the problem. If the Joker wasn’t holding him hostage, and everyone thought he was dead, then that meant… 

“Diana, this is very important. Do you know who Damian Wayne is?” Bruce asked, staring intently at her. She blinked, perhaps uncomfortable with the unusual level of open scrutiny from Batman. When he didn’t look away, Wonder Woman stared back at him, in a way that indicated she was worried about his mental health. 

“No. Who is that?” she asked, a hint of accusation in her voice. Bruce sighed, because this proved his theory, and the reality of it might just be worse than being held hostage by the Joker. 

“Damian Wayne is my son… in the universe where I come from,” Bruce clarified. 

Sometimes it sucked to be right.


	4. Stuck in the Middle with You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wonder Woman takes Bruce back to her room in the Justice League HQ. Superman has some stuff to explain to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song _Stuck In The Middle With You_ , by Stealers Wheel.

Clark was awoken from slumber by a call on his communicator from Diana. Either there was an emergency, or she had discovered that there seemed to be an alternate version of Bruce in this universe. With a jolt that had him springing from his bed, Clark realized… _he’d never told Diana that there was an alternate-Bruce here_. Given the fact that she had been married to the Batman of this universe, Superman would have bet good money that it was the latter— if he were a betting man, that is. And that she’d be pissed he hadn’t told her. So, he quickly put on his suit and was out the door. 

He met her in the transport room. She had her arms crossed over her chest and one foot errantly tapped against the ground. Her eyebrows arched and her lips pursed in an angry line when she saw him. “When were you going to tell me that Bruce is— that Batman is here?” she asked. Clark grimaced. “I’m waiting,” she said coldly. Superman sighed and managed to look like a little kid who’d been scolded; it was the mid-Westerner in him. 

“I… I’m sorry, Diana. It was a mistake. I was upset at the way he interacted with Joker— I wasn’t sure if he was like our Bruce. Between that, and the fact that he was injured, having to run DNA analysis, and the shock of it all I … forgot,” he said. 

Wonder Woman’s eyes softened at his words and she no longer looked like she was about to face off with someone who’d made sexist comments. But now Superman was curious. “Where is he, by the way? I haven’t heard anything from Dr. Joker and if he’d escaped, well, this would be an entirely different conversation,” Clark commented awkwardly. Diana’ s expression, which had veered toward neutral, turned stormy again. She sighed, but it didn’t seem to be directed as Clark this time. 

“He’s sitting in my quarters because he _did_ escape from the infirmary— the poor man was terrified of the Joker. Unfortunately, he beat up the doctor to get out, so Dr. Joker, wisely, is going to let us handle him until we know more about the situation. But I still want answers. Why is he here? Is he a hero or villain, because I will not have Batman’s legacy tarnished by some— some knock-off alternate deciding to take over this world,” she said. 

Clark was a little worried for the other man, illogically, because Diana was right. But to Clark, and his Batman would have called him stupid for admitting it, the other Batman seemed trustworthy. “I agree with you, Diana. But we also have to remember, Bruce is only human, and from my interactions with him, I get the sense that he’s… been through a lot. I don’t think we have to interrogate him too much either— he recognized me and was glad to see me, so we must be friends in his universe,” Superman reasoned. Diana looked at him as Bruce would— would have— as if he were missing the obvious. 

“Clark,” she said gently, “how do we know you’re a hero in this Batman’s universe?” Ah. That did cause problems then. 

In his head, Batman laughed. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After Diana had confronted Bruce in the hall, she’d taken him to another room, which, although she didn’t say explicitly what it was, he knew to be her quarters. Not a lot gets past the world’s— a world’s, he reminded himself— greatest detective, even when he’s high. She did not offer to take him back to the infirmary after their initial encounter and he was relieved. He did not want to see the Joker again, even if this was an alternate universe, unless necessary. Additionally, Batman was prideful and did not like to be seen when he was weak. So, if Diana wanted to ignore his… condition, then Bruce would fully support her in her endeavors. 

That being said, it was a little annoying that he felt like he was being stored in her quarters until a solution could be found; he was Batman— one universe’s version of him— and if they wanted to verify his identity, he would comply. But he did not appreciate being kept out of the loop, and he still did not understand where he was or what this universe was like. This bothered him, a lot. He did not want to find out that the Justice League in this universe were criminals. That was a very unsettling thought, because if they were criminals, then he had no allies here and most likely would meet a quick death. Bruce frowned again, feeling, to a lesser extent, the buzzing in his head from earlier. 

At first, after Diana had brought him to her room, Bruce had stood by the door. This was mostly out of discomfort, but also because he felt dizzy and wanted to have something to grab onto. Once he’d ‘settled in,’ Diana had bid him a brief farewell and shut the door. Bruce was left alone with his thoughts, which still weren’t anywhere near as coherent as usual. He also found that the nausea and floaty feeling could no longer be ignored. Despite his instincts, Bruce found that he had to sit down. Perhaps it was the drugs, but Bruce felt like he could hear Alfred’s voice telling him to stop pushing himself so hard with his injuries. So, Bruce conceded the point that, yes, he was injured, and lurched to Diana’s desk chair, collapsing into it rather clumsily. 

Though he was still not sober, he could feel the drugs wearing off some and sighed. But his discomfort was more than physical. Being exposed without his suit, with his injuries so plain to see, made Bruce feel alone. It was a scary thought that Alfred, Dick, and Tim might not exist here, and it was worse to know that Damian did not exist here. What would he do if he were trapped here? He blinked at the thought and found himself feeling very uncomfortable at where his thoughts were leading. 

His eyes scanned the room, curious and— though he wouldn’t admit it— desperate for a distraction. He found a photo on the desk in front of him and his brow furrowed. It was a wedding photo of _himself_ — the alternate version— and Wonder Woman. That was unexpected enough to make Bruce reach for the photo, then jerk his hand back. Then reach again and pick it up, frowning, before he could think better about invading Wonder Woman’s privacy. 

In his universe, there was some sexual tension between the two, he’d admit, and maybe if it had been a few years ago he would have acted on it. But now that he had Damian, he’d had no time to. Not to mention, it was extremely unprofessional. But here, clearly that had not bothered this universe’s Batman, or he’d found a way around the problem. But Bruce knew that this fact would cause… problems. He knew what it was like to wish to be able to see a dead friend, colleague… or parents again, and knew that even seeing an alternate version of himself would destabilize Wonder Woman at least a little. 

A few minutes later, Bruce shook his head, realizing that he’d been staring into space for the last few minutes, photo still clutched in his hand. He sighed and realized how tired he was. But he was Batman, even without the suit— Bruce Wayne had long ago become a mask— and he refused to succumb to sleep, drugged or not. Furthermore, Bruce’s innate sense of paranoia, which Clark still teased him for (even if that same paranoia had saved _all_ their lives on countless occasions) screamed that it was not safe to fall asleep here. Not with so little information about his location. If he was on his own here, he should be ready to defend himself at any moment. Additionally, the fact that this was Wonder Woman’s space and that they had been… intimate made him feel uncomfortable. 

Batman sat up in the chair and scowled, trying to think of a way to keep himself awake. He wanted to leave the room, be active, but was afraid that if he tried the door he would find it locked. If that was the case, he’d only end up worrying about it, and that would be unproductive, so why bother? Also, he scolded himself, he had no idea where anything was in this universe, so even if he was ‘allowed’ out of Wonder Woman’s quarters, he wouldn’t be very useful until someone helped orient him. 

Bruce once again became lost in thought. He stared intently at the wall ahead of him, wondering what he was going to do, and with a jerk, blinked open his eyes. He’d fallen asleep for a moment. He blinked again, frustrated at his body and his mind for making him feel so defenseless. 

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Diana unlocked her quarters and walked in with Clark behind her. She saw that the lights were still on, set at a low glow. She did not think that Batman would want to sleep— she knew any version of the man would be cautious to the point of paranoia in a situation like this— but she had left the lights dimmed anyway. However, she saw immediately that he was asleep. He lay half-draped over her desk, his head resting on his uninjured arm. Bruce’s other arm hung limply, and some of Diana’s papers rustled slightly with each of his breaths. She scolded herself for forgetting his injuries. _Of course_ he would be exhausted; Batman, even alternate versions of him, it seemed, was still human. 

Superman was hovering awkwardly in the hallway, seeming unwilling to interrupt such an intimate moment. Diana cursed herself and this situation, because there was no intimacy here. This man, for all the fact that he wore her dead husband’s face, was a stranger. But he did not deserve what had happened to him, and Diana could not help wanting him to be comfortable. She still held the image of Bruce from earlier that day, when he’d been wide-eyed and vulnerable, in her head. And now, here he was, vulnerable again, implicitly trusting _her_ to guard his sleeping body. So, ignoring Clark, she scooped Batman into her arms and lay him in her bed. 

He stirred slightly at the movement, but only sighed, and turned over. Diana’s eyes glistened at the familiar movement and she tore her thoughts away from what she could not have. After turning off the lights, she stormed angrily past Clark, whose expression held nothing but unwanted pity. Diana had never accepted any pity from a man, even Batman. She needed to hit something, or she felt like she’d scream. So Wonder Woman barreled through the halls, towards the gym, to escape acrimonious thoughts about a handsome, dark, tortured man.


	5. Hello, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce starts to get his bearings and Clark reintroduces himself to his best friend's 'alternate.'

Batman gained wakefulness slowly. He sat up, not quite remembering where he was, but he remembered more as his various injuries made themselves known. As he squinted in the dark, he tried to recall the (very fuzzy) details of what had happened the previous night. Bruce still felt the aftermath of drugs in his body. What he did not know was how he had ended up in Diana’s bed. It made him flush for reasons he quickly suppressed, and he sat up. He had no idea what time it was because this version of Wonder Woman did not keep an alarm clock next to her bed like his— his universe’s, he corrected— did. 

He also felt bad about being in her bed because it most likely meant that she had had no place to sleep, even if she was a meta-human. Also, he was filthy. It had been a long day the day before, not to mention that he had been in the Bat suit for most of it, and he was injured. Bruce felt sticky and wanted to change his clothes, but did not have anything to change into and did not feel comfortable stealing one of Diana’s towels. Again, he had the weird realization that at some point, she _would have_ shared towels with him because of their relationship. It was an unpleasant thing to think about. However, he could concede that using her bathroom to at least wash his hair and face would be acceptable. 

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Superman hovered outside of Wonder Woman’s quarters, unsure if he should go in yet. He didn’t want to wake Bruce up if he were still sleeping. But he also did not want to leave the man as he was if he were awake; if he was, Bruce— at least his Bruce— would have been too awkward to ask for things like new clothes or food or water. He did not want the man to be uncomfortable. He knocked on the door. And got no answer. So Superman used his super hearing and heard the sink running in Diana’s room. Batman was up, then. Clark input his code to the door and it opened. He stood by the entrance to give Batman space, so the other man wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. 

The bathroom door slid open and Bruce walked out… with wet hair and a clean face. Clark sighed to himself. _That was just like something his Batman would have done: not taking care of himself for fear of hurting someone else’s feelings._ Batman must have guessed his expression because he said gruffly, “I didn’t want to use her shower because I have nothing to change into… I didn’t think, given the situation, that she’d be very happy about that.” 

Clark gave his friend a look— this version of Bruce, he corrected with a sour pang— and replied, “Don’t be an idiot. Of course, she wouldn’t have minded. Wait right here, I’ll be back.” 

Superman flew to his own quarters and grabbed some clothes for Bruce. Thankfully, the two men were about the same size, although Clark was a little wider in the shoulders. He also grabbed a fresh razor and some other necessities for Bruce. Although his Batman’s quarters were still here, with all his things in them, it felt wrong to go through a dead man’s stuff… especially since it had turned into a kind of mausoleum, quietly gathering dust and serving as a reminder of the past. He would need to ask Diana what to do later, because this Bruce would certainly ask to see it and seeing as his suit had been destroyed, he’d want to visit the bat cave too. 

When Clark returned to the room, Bruce was still standing uncomfortably in the same spot. Clark barely suppressed the grimace he felt forming on his face. He handed the pile of clothes to Bruce and said, “I think this is everything you’ll need for now. If you need something else, don’t be afraid to ask. What’s mine is yours while we figure everything else out.” The other man nodded, gratefulness in his eyes. 

“I’ll let you know,” he said. Clark awkwardly excused himself after that. 

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Bruce tried not to be frustrated that he was so reliant on the charity of other men, let alone Superman. He had always detested needing the help of meta-humans, or, in this case, aliens. It made him feel useless, unnecessary, weak. But he literally had nothing except for the clothes on his back, so there was little choice for him. He did admit, after he’d finished showering, that fresh clothing felt amazing, and he felt a lot more human after a shave; that was one ‘Bruce Wayne’ characteristic he’d not had to fake— he always had hated the way he looked with facial hair. 

But now he did not know what to do with himself, or his clothing. He knew that he should probably throw it away, but he felt oddly reluctant to. Although he tried to stop himself, the thought that _this could be the last connection to anything from my universe_ was there. So, he settled that problem by filling the tub with water and soap and soaking his dirty clothes there. Then he set his— Clark’s— things on the bathroom counter in a corner. After that he went to the door and… hesitated. 

Although he was naturally more of an introvert, Bruce was not a shy person. Being born rich, and being Batman, had long ago taken any shyness right out of him. However, going off Diana’s reaction to his ‘return,’ the circumstances of his death were… unpleasant. He did not feel like wandering lost around the Justice League headquarters and getting ogled at. But he was extremely reluctant to have to wait for Wonder Woman or Superman to come and ‘fetch’ him. It rankled his sense of independence. So, he boldly stepped out the door and nearly ran into the man of steel himself. 

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“Superman,” he greeted. 

“Bruce— er, Batman,” Clark said. Bruce raised an eyebrow. 

“I don’t know what to call you,” Superman admitted. Bruce allowed for a small smile— that sounded _exactly_ like something his Clark would say. But then he thought. He was unsure if he wanted to go by only ‘Bruce’ here. The chances of there being any repercussions from it were slim, but possible. Mostly it bothered him because it was so intimate, and he’d always strived to make the bat inhuman, simply a force of fear to criminals, or of hope to the citizens of Gotham. But, he wasn’t exactly Batman right now, and going by the moniker while out of costume felt wrong. 

“Call me ‘B,’” he said. Superman nodded, which brought up another issue for Bruce. 

Awkwardly, he asked, “What do you— I’m not going to go around calling you ‘Superman’ all the time. But I don’t want to expose your 'civilian' identity, if you have one in this— here. What should I call you?” This time, Clark smiled. 

“My name’s Clark Kent… I don’t know if that's your Superman’s name, but it is mine. I suppose you can call me by my Kryptonian name, El Kal. Or you can call me Clark when it’s just us and the other founders of the Justice League,” he said. 

“Fine,” Bruce said. 


	6. Sick in the Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People Batman knows— friends, villains— keep popping up, and it's alarming. Bruce has a conversation with Harley Quinn, only, she's not herself.

As Bruce and Clark went to pick up Wonder Woman from wherever she’d been, Clark couldn’t help but observe this Batman. Overall, he did appear to be similar to theirs, but Clark noticed minute differences in the way the men carried themselves. For instance, this one was more… guarded, as if he were ready to protect himself at all times. Of course, his Batman had been guarded too, but it didn’t feel as self-defensive as this one’s actions did. It was a bit exhausting. Bruce, if he noticed Clark’s stares, said nothing. Though, honestly, he was probably observing Clark as well, he was just subtler about it. Bruce looked around, probably trying to learn the layout of JL headquarters, Clark assumed. He also noticed the way Batman limped slightly. Batman’s injuries had lead to the creation of a plan last night. 

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Superman and Wonder Woman had decided that they needed a way to help Batman recover from his injuries _without_ traumatizing him or his physicians. So, they’d explained the situation to the medical staff and they had selected the JL’s second best doctor besides Dr. Joker, Harleen Quinzelle. Clark hoped there would be no reaction to her as there had been to Joker; despite the JL’s vast resources, they did only have a certain number of doctors available. 

From the resigned set of his shoulders, Bruce seemed to realize where they were going. 

When they entered the infirmary and Batman saw the female doctor, Clark noticed the way his muscles stiffened. But Bruce didn’t say anything, so Clark hoped that he was just surprised to see her. But, Diana also noticed, and she asked bluntly, “You don’t have a problem with female doctors, do you, Batman?” 

Caught, Bruce turned to face them. “Not with the concept of women being doctors, not with the concept of me having a female physician. It’s… I recognize her,” he explained evasively. 

Locking onto her target, Diana went for blood, demanding, “So, did you have a relationship with her in your universe, or did you fight her?” 

Bruce looked flustered. Poor Dr. Quinzelle, awkwardly standing in the corner, looked a little flustered too. Bruce visibly composed himself, and replied, “I appreciate your… concern about my reactions to people I perhaps know in my universe, however, I find that it isn’t really your business.” Before Diana could say anything else, Bruce strode over to the doctor and said, “I’m ready.” 

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Harleen Quinzelle had heard about the return of Batman via her colleagues’ gossiping. Dr. Joker, as the head doctor here, had made quite a fuss about it. He wasn’t mad at Batman, having realized that there was some kind of dark history between the two in the man’s universe, but he had nonetheless removed himself from this case. Rumor was that the Bat had beat him up _twice_ to try and escape. So that left Harleen. 

She had never met the Batman, but rather, had heard of him and seen him in the infirmary, either getting patched up or visiting a friend. Even if she hadn’t seen him, there was no escaping news of the Gotham Bat’s deeds. Also, despite his gruffness, he was (had been) well-respected within the league and most of the international community. She likewise knew of the friendship between the Bat and doctor. 

Both were from Gotham city. They’d met when the doctor, a famous surgeon, had found himself on the wrong side of a gangster’s wrath and the Bat had acted as his savior. The pair had then formed a successful professional relationship. The doctor acted as Batman’s personal physician, and Batman provided him with funding and costumed clientele. Eventually, the doctor had learned Batman’s identity and they became friends outside of the crime-fighting world. That was another reason why Dr. Joker had removed himself from this case— he knew Bruce Wayne, and knew when he was uncomfortable. _This_ Bruce was uncomfortable in the doctor’s presence. 

Still, it was a surprise to see Bruce Wayne here again. He had died three years ago, under dramatic circumstances, she knew that much. This had shaken everyone in the hero world, and some in the ‘civilian’ one too. Harleen was, along with being a doctor of the body, a doctor of the mind. She could easily read the signs of a man who was uncomfortable when he’d walked in and had seen her. She had stood, waiting for him, Superman, and Wonder Woman to finish their conversation before beginning her examination. It had rather surprised her that he had instead begun it, after hearing the… allegations his friends made, that is. She did not quite know which would be worse: being a conquest of his or being a villain he fought. 

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His friends left, and she cleared her throat awkwardly. 

“I… I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he said, finally. She nodded, accepting his words. He had said them, but she could tell it was from an ingrained sense of politeness. It was the stiff, almost stone-like way he held himself. So, she had fought him as a villain then, she presumed. 

“I’m going to need you to remove your shirt and roll up your pants a bit. Are you okay with that?” she asked. He nodded, silently complying with her requests. 

As she removed his bandages around his ribs, he asked, “What’s your name?” 

“Harleen Quinzelle. But my friends call me Harley, like the motorcycle. I don’t know if that company exists, where you’re from…” she responded awkwardly. He huffed out a chuckle. 

“Yes, it exists,” he said. For some reason, she didn’t think he’d been laughing at the existence of the same company in two different universes. 

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The cuts had healed some, and she recognized the type of stiches Dr. Joker used. To be safe, she applied more antiseptic before moving on to check his ribs. Earlier x-rays hadn’t revealed any damage, but one should be certain of these things. The cast would stay on for a bit, but the break hadn’t been too serious. The ankle was still tender, from the way he flinched slightly when she touched the cast. Perhaps it’d have to stay casted a bit longer. He was quiet throughout the process until she got to wrapping him back up. 

“Thank you,” he said. She could tell there was some kind of feeling behind it, maybe amusement, but perhaps something darker. It sounded almost like an invitation. 

“You’re welcome,” she returned, looking at his face for a clue. There was none. 

But he surprised her. As he put was buttoning his shirt, he clarified, “You usually try to kill me, in my universe. You and him— The Joker, usually try to kill me and… my sons.” 

Well. That explained it. She puzzled this over a moment. _What did one say to something like that?_ “Oh… I’m sorry,” she decided, finally. He looked at her, an unreadable expression on his face. She felt pierced through, and wanted to shiver. 

“Thank you,” he said again, after a pause. She nodded, and told him what antibiotics to take, to come back if there was any discomfort, how long the casts should stay on (not that that recommendation was ever followed in the caped community), and gave him some mild pain killers. He accepted them all with a nod and walked out the door. She stared thoughtfully after him for a long while, until the office phone’s shrill tone startled her. Harleen Quinzelle shook herself out of her pensiveness and went to answer it. 

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Bruce felt awkward, sitting there, alone with Harley Quinn— Harleen Quinzelle, doctor, he reminded himself forcefully. It was very eerie that she existed in this universe, but as a force of good instead of destruction. It also stirred something inside him, something odd and aching, that here too she was tethered to the Joker. Even if she wasn’t abused here. She was like his Harley Quinn on her nicer, less psychotic days. Sadly, he thought, _this is what she could have been if Joker hadn’t corrupted her_. Harley had always elicited more pity from him than the other rogues. On her own, she could do terrible things, but often did not, or at least, chose to kill less. She frustrated him because she always chose to turn back to the evil clown, despite his offers of help. And so, continued the cycle of violence between him, the clown, and the jester. 

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Once they’d begun talking, and he had told her who she was in his universe, he had found he had wanted to ask her more about her life. But, this wasn’t his world, he reminded himself, and this Harleen Quinzelle, doctor of medicine, was a different woman than the one he knew… and pitied, fought, and despised. Oh yes, he _despised_ her. For she was the enabler of much of Joker’s violence and she was violent in her own right. Together, she and the clown had taken one of his sons from him and he’d never forgive her for it. And yet, his friends still maintained that Bruce was a man who hardly felt _anything_. It would be inconceivable for them to believe that he had emotional nuances, could hold two conflicting emotions within himself at one time. Bruce supposed J’ohn was the only one who recognized the truth (sometimes). Hmp. 

But when this Harley had apologized, it had… been bittersweet. It was decent of her to apologize for things she’d never done, words she’d never said. It soothed him, a little, to know that decency existed somewhere, in the criminals he fought. But it was bitter, oh so bitter, because he knew it would not be the same when he went home… if he ever did. In that moment, he had almost told her about Jason. But, then, he decided, like the bittersweet emotions he felt at her apology, it was a private thing. He did not want to bring distress to an innocent woman, even if her name happened to be Harley Quinn. That burden was his to bear, always. 

So, his visit with the sane Harleen Quinzelle, woman of medicine, of healing, had concluded. He found himself in a maudlin mood. He missed his family. He missed his absent son. But when he saw the alternate Diana and Clark waiting for him, he put his mask on and set his feelings aside to mull over in a more private moment. 

“How’d it go?” asked Clark. 

"Fine,” he replied. He swallowed as the attempt at conversation died. 

After a few more moments of silence, Diana asked, “Are you hungry?” He looked at her, and saw that she was offering a truce. 

“Very,” he had said quietly. She nodded, smiling. 

“All right. The cafeteria’s this way. It should be pretty empty around now,” she said, leading him and Superman behind her like children on a field trip. Clark glanced at him, amused.


	7. Everything is Complicated When You're Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce gets a small tour of the league head quarters, and Clark thinks of how to bring up a sensitive topic with Bruce, because there are some things he needs to know.

After they’d been, essentially, dismissed from the infirmary, Diana had stormed out and began pacing the halls. “So stubborn and… and blunt! I cannot believe—” she trailed off, too emotional. Clark sympathized. He let her cool down a little, knowing how her anger could suddenly change direction when she was worked up enough, before he offered his suggestion. 

“Diana,” he said gently, “this isn’t our Batman… he does not have the same relationship with you that our Batman did. It is neither of our places to put him on the spot with questions like that, even if we might wish to.” 

She glared at him a moment before conceding, “I... you do have a point. Thank you. It is just— it is difficult, to see his face, and not act as I would have around my own husband, around my own Bruce.” He smiled gently, feeling the same ache that she surely was. 

“I know,” he said. She nodded, coming to stand beside him as they waited. 

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Luckily enough, or more likely, _engineered_ to be, the cafeteria was empty when Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman arrived. They grabbed food and sat. “So,” began Superman. Bruce set down his coffee. It seemed as if it were finally time for business to begin. 

“You want to know more about me and if I’m really who I say I am. I want to know more about where I am and what this world is like,” Batman said. Superman looked sheepish. 

“Yes, something like that,” he admitted. Both men swung to look at Wonder Woman, who had been impassively listening in. 

“We should call the other founders, the ones who knew you— our version of you. Then, if you’ll consent, we can answer some questions, mutually,” she suggested. Bruce sighed internally. _She was talking about using the lasso of truth._ He did not want to be under its influence, feared what he would say, but he had precious little choice. Trust was a two-way road, after all… unfortunately. 

“I would be… willing to have the lasso used on me,” he said, being sure to make them hear how flexible he was being. Diana, eyes hard, nodded once. Even Clark, who was usually such a boy scout, looked a little relieved. Bruce just hoped they didn’t ask too many probing questions. Although he was their friend, ally, and fellow hero, that did not mean he was a good person. The abyss stared back, even after all these years. He also decided now that he had made a concession, it was time for a demand. 

“If I am going to be here a long time— and, unfortunately, I think I will— I am going to need a more permanent living solution. I will also need a suit. I understand that your Batman— Bruce Wayne— died. I do not wish to impose in anyway that would make things complicated. But if there is still a bat cave, I could perform league duties while I am here,” he said. Wonder Woman looked thoughtful and Superman sighed. 

Bruce raised an eyebrow and Superman glanced around. “It's… complicated, especially the Bruce Wayne part. But, I think we can solve ‘the suit’ issue right now. I’ll show you his quarters and we can meet Diana in the briefing room,” Superman said. Bruce nodded. _For now, this would do._ But he sensed that he’d have to push later to get the rest of what he wanted. Thankfully though, Batman was nothing if not patient. 

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Clark was honestly a little surprised that Batman had said he’d be willing to undergo an interrogation— albeit not a too thorough one— under the lasso of truth. But then, he had began pushing. Clark knew that it’d happen eventually, and really, keeping Batman cooped up was not right for either party. However, the fact that Bruce Wayne had died three years ago made things tricky, not to mention, this was not Batman’s world. Clark was sure that under his mask of stoicism, he was frustrated, angry… and lonely; Diana had told him that in his own universe, Bruce had a son. 

But then Bruce had asked if there was still a batsuit around— ignoring the fact that by being dead, one would automatically be kept around as a memorial— and things got tricky again. Since Diana was Bruce’s widow, all his things had become hers… she would gladly let Bruce use them, since technically, they were his, but she did not want to relive the memories. That meant that someone else had to help Bruce find things he might need. Which meant that the job fell to Clark. On top of all the other complicated things, this was exhausting. Both emotionally and physically. 

For instance, how to tell Bruce how he’d died. How to tell him that Diana was prickly with him because she cared. How to tell him which people were enemies, which were friends— clearly, that was one thing that had changed a lot between universes— who to fight, who to ally with. How to even begin helping him get back, or to adjust to this universe? The sheer number of small concerns made Clark’s head ache. Bruce had always been ‘the details man’ but Clark was a reporter; he cared about the dot on the ‘i’ and the cross on the ‘t.’


	8. How Can I Tell You Who I Am?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Clark take a walk, and Bruce learns what really happened to his 'alternate.' Then, Bruce meets more of the League and gets interrogated under the lasso of truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this chapter goes more in-depth about the previously mentioned suicide, FYI.

Bruce saw Clark’s ‘thinking face’ come out after he’d asked for a suit and inquired about where he was going to stay. He’d understood the implications of being in another universe the moment he had asked Diana if she knew who Damian was. But still, knowing and experiencing were different beasts. He had not expected to be catapaulted into a universe where his counterpart was dead, for example. Every time his counterpart was mentioned, he felt as if he had to tread on damn glass. It was exhausting. It was frightening too, having to rely on another person for absolutely everything, even clothing. It made Bruce feel _weak_. 

Every moment he was gone, something awful could be happening at home— he had been flying to rescue Superman, after all. His children were there, alone, potentially dealing with world-ending threats _without_ him. It was unnerving, terrifying really. Bruce yearned for a time when he could have consulted Alfred about all this. Then he scowled, wishing there was a way he could wish these thoughts away. 

“What’s on your mind, B?” asked Clark. Frowning, Bruce sighed. Might as well get it over with. 

“How did my alternate die, El?” he asked. Clark skidded to a halt and stared. So, they were having that conversation then... 

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Three years ago, Batman, a.k.a. Bruce Wayne, had committed suicide. 

Gotham had been destroyed via bomb by their Batman’s arch nemesis, Lex Luthor. Bruce had been devastated— however, his parents had survived by the small fact that Thomas and Martha Wayne had been attending a medical convention in Florida. He might have lived too if it weren’t for the fact that his precious wife, Wonder Woman— Diana Price— was also dead. But Zeus had deemed that it was not yet her time, and made a deal with Hades for the soul of the princess of the Amazons. However, it was too late for Bruce, who had fought with too much passion, too much pain, too much hope, for too long. The Bat, without his love, his princess, had no purpose, and neither did Wayne. It had undone him. 

Clark told Bruce as much when they’d entered this universe’s Batman’s quarters. The other man blinked, and then shut down. Finally, Clark had seen a spark of something he was very familiar with seeing in Batman’s eyes: _anger_. Wordlessly, Batman had stood, and hugged Clark firmly. Clark kindly ignored his shaking. After a moment, Bruce had gruffly let go, but Clark could tell he was shaken. He looked around the room, perhaps seeing himself in some of the items there and Clark thought _it was rather like seeing Bruce’s ghost_. He shuddered. 

The Batman in his head was silent. 

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_Oh_ , was Bruce’s though as Clark told him how he’d died. Suicide was not something he’d expected. It made him sad… and furious— and rage— at his alternate, that he had had his parents, his _proper_ life, friends, and had wasted it. Thrown it away. Thought so little of it that he'd just _left_ it. It was sickening. Then he thought, _Clark and Diana have survived this, and welcomed me here, still_. He understood now, why Diana looked haunted when she thought he wasn’t watching, why Clark did not mention his Batman more. This was a dark universe indeed, with no knight to guide it. 

But, also perversely, he had felt like his personal burden had eased, just slightly. Even if he had never had his parents, had rued the day he fought the original Red Hood in the Ace Chemicals plant, had rued so many facts of his existence, he had Gotham. Did not feel the sick desperation to not exist any longer. He shook, overcome by it. He wished, achingly, that he had his sons here to hold onto, to tell that he appreciated them so damn much… loved them, and Alfred too, more than the whole wide world. But he couldn’t. 

He hadn’t realized that he’d been shaking again until Clark, bright as the sun, had put a steadying hand on his shoulder and asked, “Are you all right?” 

Bruce took one gulping breath, and said, “Yes. I… was just thinking. I… if I have to stay here, I will not leave you. And thank you, Clark, thank—” 

Clark smiled fragilely, and cut off his ranting by saying, “It’s okay, Bruce. I understand.” Recovered somewhat, Batman pulled his cowl up. The two men left the room, and saw that Wonder Woman had been waiting for them down the hall. Bruce took in the sight of her with new appreciation. She gave him a once over and gave him a small, fragile smile. He nodded at her. She turned around and lead the way to the briefing room. 

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As they reached the door, Bruce tried his best to set aside the profound sense of unsettlement he felt from Clark’s earlier revelations. But he still felt unease, and apprehension at meeting other people in this universe. As they entered the room, Bruce was suddenly engulfed in a hug and heard, “ohmygod,it’syou!Wait,sorry,alternate-you.Bruce,ohmygod!” 

He smiled, and said, automatically, “It’s good to see you too, Barry.” Then he realized his mistake when he looked closer and saw that this Flash was a woman. He blinked— in his defense, he was wearing 20 pounds of armor and Kevlar so it was hard to feel a hug— as the Flash laughed amusedly. 

“I take it that my counterpart is named ‘Barry,’” she said good-naturedly. 

“Yes. I apologize,” he said, trying not to reveal his embarrassment. 

She winked, having caught on, and diplomatically said, “My name is Alice, Alice Allen. You’re not a woman under all that armor, are you?” Bruce chuckled. 

“No. Still the same man as before. I’ll let you know if anything changes,” he jested. 

The next to greet him was the Martian Manhunter, although he was not green, but white. Although he appeared to be male still. “Hello, alternate-Batman. Do I exist in your universe?” asked the Martian, the faint sense of amusement coming through the Martian’s still subdued tone. 

“Yes,” Bruce said, “although you’re green where I come from.” The Martian’s red eyes flashed in amusement. 

“I do not know how I feel about that,” he said, floating away. 

The next most surprising person was the yellow lantern standing in the corner, looking at Bruce curiously. Just based on his observations, this ‘yellow lantern’ seemed to have an attitude, Bruce would say that this was Hal Jordan’s alternate version— some things didn't change, apparently... Even if she were female. Bruce left well enough alone and tried to find the last founding members. With a surprisingly sad feeling, he began to think that perhaps they didn’t exist here. 

Clark flew over and asked, “Looking for someone?” 

“Is there an alien from a planet called Thanigar— a woman with wings in the league? Or is there a man from Atlantis, who can communicate with sea life?” Batman asked. Clark looked amused, but the look faded. 

“You sure you’re not pulling my leg with that Atlantean thing? But as for the woman with wings— that’d be Eagle, and she’s no friend. Nearly killed Diana a month ago,” Superman clarified. Bruce nodded. This was all fascinating. 

The yellow lantern’s voice interrupted, “This get-together is fun and all, but I’ve got a galaxy to protect. Let’s get down to business, shall we?” The other founders glared at the lantern, but complied. They sat around a table and Bruce stood awkwardly in front of them. Diana finally gestured to a seat by her side. Clark stood— apparently he still led briefings, Bruce mused. 

“Three days ago, I was flying around Metropolis when I received word that a bogie was flying through the city— and that it was identified as the bat-jet. I began investigating and found the Batman— a Batman— unconscious and injured. I took him back here and he has been recovering. I already ran a DNA test, the result was a conclusive match. The man before us is indeed Bruce Wayne, but please refrain from calling him that, as the status of his secret identity is still important. Furthermore, he has agreed to undergo questioning via the lasso of truth,” Clark said, gesturing to Diana. 

She stood, everyone else swiveling in their chairs for a better view. Bruce held out a gloved hand and Diana gently wrapped the lasso around it. “What is your name, age, and occupation?” she asked. 

Bruce felt the sting of the lasso and answered, “Bruce Thomas Wayne, age 32, occupation CEO of Wayne Enterprises, or the Batman.” Diana nodded at him reassuringly. 

Clark stood, and asked, sounding a bit apprehensive, “Do you consider yourself a protector of the innocent, someone who fights for justice?” Bruce hesitated. Yes, he wanted criminals to be brought to justice, he did not kill, but sometimes he feared the darkness in himself. 

The lasso burned, not accepting that answer, so he said, “I believe in justice, although I am considered a vigilante by some. However, I am a member of the Justice League and have recently been more openly called a hero.” This seemed to appease Clark some, although there were questions in his eyes. 

This time, the Flash stood and asked, in her high-pitched voice— that was going to be weird— “Is the Flash you know attractive?” There were a few chuckles from some of the people in the room and a sharp look from Diana. Bruce sighed. 

“Objectively, yes. Although your alternate would do good to withgo the cheesy pick-up lines. He does not have a lot of luck with women. Also, I am not attracted to men, so am not attracted to you. But, objectively, yes, you meet the definition of ‘attractive’ as a male.” 

The Flash winked, and said, “Thanks, Batman!” Bruce sighed to himself. 

The Martian remained seated. He observed Bruce a moment and Batman wondered if he were perhaps reading his mind— he thought that this version of the Martian Manhunter could have different rules about the proper use of telepathy. He finally asked, “Why are you here?” Bruce wanted to interpret the question as ‘how are you in this universe’ but this lasso prevented manipulative interpretations too, it seemed. So Bruce answered the question as it was intended to be answered. 

“Not for one particular reason. Bad luck would be the most basic, but that is not all. I would like to be able to say a wish for justice, but it is not purely that either. I think ‘The Batman’ was born from a sense of outrage, of a little boy’s wish for vengeance,” he said, wishing he was not required to elaborate further. The Martian nodded at him, a curious glint in his eye. Bruce felt wary. 

Finally the yellow lantern stood. “Why are you the Batman?” she asked. Ah, this was the question Bruce had wanted to avoid. But despite his best efforts, the lasso made him spit out the truth. 

“When I was eight years old, I watched my parents get murdered by some punk with a gun. I wanted vengeance, and studied science, and fighting, for years. I knew criminals were a cowardly and superstitious lot, so I took on a mantle that scared both them… and had scared me as a child— the bat. But as the years went by, I realized that I no longer stood for vengeance, but justice… all I want is to stop another kid from ending up like me. When Batman is no longer necessary, I’ll have finished my mission,” Bruce said, trying to keep his voice neutral. 

There was a hush in the room after that. Despite the fact that he did not have the telepathic powers of J'ohn J'onzz, Bruce could sense the pity rolling off everyone else in waves. “Does anyone else have any questions?” he asked a little snappily. Diana stood again and thankfully, all the attention was diverted from him… momentarily. 

“If you are forced to stay in this universe, what do you plan to do?” she asked harshly. Bruce’s mind immediately connected the dots. _She doesn’t want me to end up liker her husband_ , he thought. 

He sighed, wishing there was an easy response he could give. But for once, the Bat was without a plan. If he were stuck here, he had absolutely no idea how to be himself— here, he was dead. While he long fantasized about ‘killing’ his alter ego, Bruce Wayne, he had never come close to it because there had never truly been a need to, and if he ever were to, it’d be after months of painstaking planning, and thinking through all the possible repercussions. He had been thrown into the deep end, with ankle weights, and sharks circling. 

“I have no idea. I’m dead— my alternate is dead, so presumably, my— his— resources would have gone to the next of kin. Not to mention, Gotham is gone, and the Bat has always stood for Gotham first; I’m not opposed to doing Justice League work, but I’m only human and off-world missions, at least in my league, are usually handled by Superman, the Martian, and the Lantern. But, without finding another identity, I don’t know how I’d survive here,” he said. 

After answering, he took off the lasso, not wanting to be questioned further. He was surprised he _could_ take off the lasso. The founding members were talking amongst themselves, several chancing glances at Bruce. He remained standing, wanting to feel more in control of the situation. 

Flash said, finally, “You know, Batman, we’d never leave you out to dry… if worst comes to worst and you do get stuck here, you can at least live in the headquarters— I know it’s not ideal, but that would be the worst-case scenario— more than likely, we could find you a place in New York or D.C. As far as your identity, well that’s a little trickier, but we’ve had worse. You wouldn’t be alone in figuring things out. I think I speak for everyone when I say that.” 

Unsure if he could get any words out after that, Bruce settled for a nod. Superman stood and that seemed to signal the end of the meeting. Slowly, people started to filter out by ones or twos. 

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Bruce stood awkwardly by his chair, waiting for Clark or Diana, who both seemed to be having words with the lantern and the Martian Manhunter. He took out a bat-a-rang and inspected it. Since his suit had been destroyed, he’d had to use— not borrow, he forcefully told himself, seeing as his alternate had owned it— a suit from this dimension. Thankfully it appeared that this Bruce was— had been— left handed too. Although this bat-a-rang appeared to be slightly skinnier and made of a different alloy than Bruce used. 

He frowned, as this was yet another challenge to overcome: different technologies. He had no idea what kind of technology there was here— he’d seen computers, but he didn’t know about the outside world, or how advanced the JL was because so far he hadn’t seen much of it. He closed his eyes behind the cowl, frustrated and feeling useless. For a tactician like Batman, this whole situation was a never-ending nightmare. 

On top of all that, his injuries were starting to hurt again and he felt vulnerable after being exposed to the lasso of truth. All he really wanted to do was use some of his pent-up energy. But he didn’t know where the training room was, if there was one. _Damn Clark and Diana for taking so long_. He’d have gone to find it by himself, if he hadn’t cared about the fact that his alternate was dead in this universe. Once again, he found himself very frustrated. He glanced at Diana and Clark— still talking to the Martian Manhunter; the yellow lantern appeared to have slipped away at some point. Batman decided he’d had enough and strode out the doors.


	9. Best Friends Forever, Wherever, and Maybe More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diana has some feelings. Bruce feels awkward. Clark is just kind of there to moderate.

Clark had been relieved when it had turned out that Bruce was a good guy— as simple as the term was— in his universe. But he knew that the man would be in a… delicate mood for at least a few hours after, as Bruce had always _hated_ discussing his emotions. He was also frustrated, Clark understood, about his dependence on his friends. Tomorrow, Clark vowed, he’d introduce Batman to some of his colleagues, so they could begin working on the problem. 

He glanced away from the Martian Manhunter and Wonder Woman to see if he could find Bruce when he realized he was gone. A pang of alarm shot through him, but he had to suppress it: Bruce was not a child, he could manage himself just fine. Although this logic still did not stop Clark from worrying. He had lost one Batman and damn him if he allowed another to be lost too. 

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After wandering around several halls, Bruce began to see how the JL headquarters of this universe were laid out. It appeared that the building was actually four separate ones, connected by long hallways, with one central ‘hub.’ He discovered this after going around in circles several times. Then eventually, he came to an elevator— the first he had seen— and it happened to have a map. He found his location and found that he has spent most of his time here on the top floor in the central hub— that was where long-time member living areas were, along with the medical center. Lower down was the cafeteria, some offices, the briefing room for senior members and some storage. It appeared that most of the lower levels consisted of common areas, storage, some offices, and transportation areas. Then, in the bottom levels were the labs. The training area, he discovered, was adjacent to the cafeteria. 

He rode the elevator up, feeling much more confident of his ability to navigate and for the first time in days, actually began to feel like himself again. He was used to being on the Watchtower, with Clark and Diana and the other founders. Although he didn’t use the gym facilities at his own Watchtower often, he did occasionally and was relieved to see that he could here too. 

Once he arrived at the gym, Bruce paused at the door, observing the layout. He saw individual rooms in the rear of the massive space, with treadmills, dummies, weights, and a pool towards the back. He did not see any holographic training options and was disappointed a moment, but shook his head. He had begun being Batman without such fancy tools, surely, he could do without them now. 

He retreated to one of the personal rooms and shut the door. The room itself was about the size of half a basketball court, with a dummy in the corner. He began a warm up, and once he was dripping with sweat— he didn’t usually work out in the Bat suit when he was injured, but he had come here to test it out— turned out the lights of the room and began his battery of tests. 

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Later, Diana retreated to her quarters to shower, only to see that Bruce’s clothes were soaking in her tub. He had also claimed a corner of her bathroom counter. She sighed, deciding that she’d have to talk to her husband about proper areas to remove bloodstains, and then blinked. She stared sadly at her reflection, reminding herself that Bruce was not her husband, not her Batman. Given the fact that Clark had already shown him the other Bruce’s quarters, she would not even get to share a living space with him for much longer either. Carefully, she drained her tub and hung Bruce’s clothes off the sink. If he objected, he shouldn’t have left his clothing there. She made a mental note to show him where to do laundry. 

She stepped into the shower and frowned. Much as she would like to stay and soak up as much time with Bruce as possible, she knew it would be irresponsible. She had a life outside of the JL— after moving to man’s world, she had taken over Washington D.C. as ‘her city’ and had not patrolled in far too long after the drama of Bruce’s arrival. Furthermore, she had friends who would surely be missing her if she stayed at headquarters for much longer. It was time for Diana Price to make an appearance again. 

In the back of her head, she had also recognized that she should step away from her costumed life, or at least the JL headquarters for a while because she was getting too close to Batman. When he left, she knew it would be worse if she had started to care for him: like ripping a band-aid off slowly. She would be polite to him, as they had most assuredly been friends before being romantically involved, but she would not allow herself such feelings of… attachment. 

But a small part of her asked, _what if he cannot return home? What then?_ Diana didn’t know. She did not know this Bruce, for all she cared about him. He could be married— he had said he had at least one son— he could be divorced and not ready for a relationship, he could secretly hate Diana in his world, the point was, Diana did not know. But she hoped, and surely it was the fact that her hopes would be dashed that would kill her. 

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Hours later, Bruce finished his workout, feeling in a much better mood. He had tested out the suit and found it much to his liking, even discovering ways he might improve his own suits back home. He wiped down the equipment and went towards Wonder Woman’s quarters to pick up some of his things there to transfer them to the other Batman’s quarters. Hesitantly he knocked on the door there, feeling like a schoolboy on a first date. He shook his head to clear such ridiculous thoughts. 

A minute passed and then Diana opened the door, dressed in nothing but a knee-length robe and a towel wrapped around her hair. “I can, er, come back later,” he stammered. His Diana had never let him see her in such a state of undress. Her eyes twinkled, and he knew she knew what he was thinking; she had been married to a version of himself, after all. He tried to drag his mind out of the gutter and realized she was speaking to him. 

“No, it’s all right. Come in… I assume you’re here for the stuff you left in my bathroom.” 

“Yes… I figured I’d give you your quarters back and I could move into Batman’s— I mean, the other—” 

“I understand,” she said, gracefully saving Bruce from his stumbling tongue. He nodded, entering her room as she stepped aside. 

Bruce quickly retreated to the bathroom and grabbed everything Clark had given him and hurriedly muttered a goodbye to Diana and had paced swiftly down the hall, feeling red heat his cheeks. “Idiot,” he muttered to himself. What would he say to his own Diana when he got back? Damn alternate universes. 

Once in his own space, Bruce removed the suit and turned on the lights, blinking a little in surprise at all the dust. He’d have to fix that. He also noted, pleasantly surprised, that his room had a computer. Good, that meant he could do some research on this universe. It would help him find answers to awkward questions without involving Diana or Clark.


	10. Gray Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman goes to eat, feeling down and lonely and Bruce meets someone important to him, and feels all the feels.

After he showered, he yawned. Searching for a clock revealed one on the night stand, only 8 p.m. It was weird, being here— no responsibilities. Normally he’d just be wrapping things up at Wayne Enterprises and heading home for a few hours of rest and training before heading out on patrol. But here, even his sleep schedule would be thrown off. His stomach grumbled, and he threw on some clean clothes before hesitating in front of the suit. He knew how to clean it, but Alfred was usually the one to do it. He was hungry, but did not feel like wearing the Bat suit around all the time— it would be exhausting to have to be the bat all the time. He opted for the cowl only and detached the cape from it and tried not to feel ridiculous. 

He walked quickly to the cafeteria and firmly strode through the doors. He may not exactly feel ‘full bat’ right now, but he absolutely refused to feel like the new kid in the high school cafeteria. It didn’t matter where he sat, or who he talked to here. At least, it shouldn’t feel like it. He grabbed a salad and scanned the area for an empty table, or for anyone he recognized. As he walked by several tables, Batman couldn’t help but notice the looks he was getting. 

Clearly, his arrival here hadn’t gone unnoticed. Grumbling, and feeling increasingly like this was a mistake, he sat in a darker corner at a round table. Although he noticed less staring once he’d sat down, there was still some buzzing in the room. Once again Batman tried not to feel out of place. Although perhaps next time he would just wear the domino mask instead of the full cowl— it felt rather like he was going to call himself something ridiculous like ‘Bat Wayne’ or ‘Bruce Man.’ 

Stabbing his salad rather harder than he needed, Bruce tried to quell his growing sense of frustration. This effort was stopped by a woman who looked remarkably like Zatanna saying, “B? I’d heard you’d come from an alternate universe… but, hello.” Batman looked up to see the woman paused, food tray in hand. She was standing next to another black-haired woman who Bruce suspected was Kara Zor El— or her alternate. 

“Hello, Zatanna,” he said, hoping that that was what she went by in this universe. 

The woman smiled and asked, “Mind if Superwoman and I sit with you?” 

“No,” Bruce said, secretly relieved. 

“Good,” she said. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The three ended up discussing similarities between their worlds— Batman’s tale of discovering that the Flash was a woman had Zatanna and Clark’s cousin in hysterics. “So, I’m called ‘Supergirl’ in your world?” asked Kara. 

“Yes,” Batman replied tonelessly, although both women knew there was humor underneath the scary voice, “although I find that I much prefer ‘Superwoman.” This elicited a laugh from the black-haired alien— she looked much more like a relative of Clark’s here, he found. 

Later, a young, black-haired man entered the cafeteria and once he saw Zatanna, approached Bruce’s table. He had a black padded suit on with blue stripes— the only difference from Dick Grayson’s ‘Nightwing’ costume was the lack of a mullet. Bruce tried not to stare and had to try even harder to ignore the pang of loneliness at the sight of his alternate-son. He couldn’t exactly ask this Nightwing’s name either— he might not even know Bruce here. Bruce tuned out of the conversation, choosing instead to observe his companions. 

This Nightwing, just like Dick, had a habit of eating too quickly so when Bruce was done with his meal, so was Nightwing. Batman stood, so did Nightwing. “Is it true— does your Gotham still exist?” asked the younger hero. Bruce hesitated, not sure how to answer. Obviously, Gotham did exist, but he did not want to sound like a braggart by mentioning so. 

“Yes. I take it you too lived there?” he asked. Nightwing hesitated a moment before nodding. Then, the younger man surprised Batman— something that he had only been able to do because he knew Bruce so well. 

“Did— do you know me, in your universe?” extrapolated the younger vigilante. _Oh_ , Batman wanted to say, _I raised you_. 

Instead he said, “You were my protegee.” Nightwing smiled and put one hand on his shoulder. 

“You want to talk?” he asked. Bruce nodded. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nightwing entered the cafeteria, starving. He hadn’t had a lot of time to eat between his work in Bludhaven and his job on the police force there. This was one of his rare ‘off’ days, and he planned to take full advantage of it. Then he noticed a lot of people watching one table in the corner, trying to do it sneakily. He noticed this because it usually only happened when a founding member of the league chose to gift the ‘plebes’ of the league with their presence. But it was only Superwoman and Nightwing’s girlfriend, Zatanna. Then he did a double-take because Batman was sitting there— the alternate universe Batman, he corrected himself. 

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As a former Gothamite, and vigilante, Nightwing had had run-ins with Batman. His parents had taken overseas jobs at an elite circus when he was ten, leaving him with his uncle in Gotham. Once there, he’d noticed all the corruption and crime the ordinary people were left to face. Using his acrobatic skills, he’d started patrolling his uncle’s neighborhood, which was adjacent to Crime Alley. 

For the first month and a half, he hadn’t seen Batman. Then, one night, as he was finishing up a fight with a mugger, the Bat himself had swooped out of the shadows and knocked out the perp with one punch. “What do you think you’re doing, kid?” he asked sternly. 

Nightwing, then calling himself Robin, had stood firmly in front of the Bat, hands on hips, and said, “I’m fighting crime! You do a great job, Batman, but one man can’t protect a whole city!” Then he had tensed, waiting for a lecture, or a growl, or something. 

But the Bat had simply said, “I see. What else can you do?” So, Robin had put on a bit of a display and once he had finished, panting, but pleased with himself, the Bat had actually looked… impressed. 

“Where did you learn that?” he asked. 

Robin had stuck out his tongue and said, “Not telling. You’ll have to guess!” Batman had chuckled at that. 

“Kid,” he said, “you know they call me the world’s greatest detective, right?” Robin smiled then— the Bat had a sense of humor, who knew? 

Soon after, Robin noticed a presence following him on his patrols. Oh, he’d never seen the Bat tailing him, but he noticed that the normal amount of crime in his neighborhood had been reduced significantly— as much as he’d like to think he had been the cause, he was not that hubristic— and knew that he had somebody looking out for him. Then, one night, as he was fighting off a gang of three crooks who had broken into Mrs. Kingsley’s café, a shadow had swooshed down beside him, and the criminals had started looking terrified. Robin knew that that look of terror wasn’t for him but was still surprised. 

Then one of the crooks had tried to punch him and the Batman had blocked it. “Never lose focus, kid,” Batman growled. Robin, still a bit too shocked for speech, simply nodded. Those three robbers never stood a chance. Robin later guessed that they’d been taken down by Batman and him— him!— in two or three minutes. A week later, the Bat had once again swooped down next to him, causing him to startle and throw a bird-a-rang. Batman had gracefully stepped aside and then ducked when the weapon doubled back like a boomerang. He caught it and inspected it. 

“Where did you get this?” he asked softly. Robin blushed. 

“My— someone I know owns an auto shop, and they let me have a few side projects. I call it a bird-a-rang… you might recognize elements of the design— you left behind a bat-a-rang at a fight a while ago and I might have picked it up,” he said. 

Batman had surprised him again by having a sense of humor when he replied, “Ah, yes. Bat-a-rang 10-A-02. I was wondering where it had got to.” 

Robin chuckled, saying, “Oh, brother.” 

Then Batman had crouched on one knee, getting eye-level with Robin, and had asked, “How would you feel about seeing the Batcave?” Robin, overjoyed and shocked, had done a backflip. 

After that, he’d ended up meeting with Batman about two or three times a week, either around the city during patrol or at pre-arranged times. Batman was a good mentor and was both instructive, supportive, and allowed Robin space to develop into his own crime-fighting self. Then, about a year after he’d begun his ‘internship’ something had changed. Batman had been antsy all afternoon, Robin noticed. He was even fiddling with his belt. It made Robin anxious, because these actions usually meant that Batman was either about to lecture him, or was worried about a criminal. But instead of either of those options, Batman had abruptly spun around and asked, “Robin, remember when you asked me to guess who you were?” 

Robin almost rolled his eyes, except he heard the seriousness in Batman’s voice. “Yes… why?” he asked, trying not to let his voice tremble. 

Batman had looked at him evenly, and said, “You’re Dick Grayson,” then he had reached for his cowl and continued, “and I am Bruce Wayne.” 

Shortly after that, Bruce Wayne had established the scholarship for children who lived with extended family. Dick Grayson had been the first recipient of many. Part of the scholarship included mentoring— in whatever form was convenient— to the winner. Dick lived in Gotham two more years before his parents finally returned home… only to uproot Dick for a job at an elite U.S. Olympic Gymnastics School in Bludhaven. 

Dick and Bruce kept in contact, and even helped each other on a few cases, but didn’t get to see each other very often. Dick changed his superhero name to Nightwing a few years later and started patrolling Bludhaven— he also entered the police academy. On the day he graduated, Bruce Wayne was there— supposedly for PR about the success of his first scholarship recipient, but Dick knew why he was really there. The next few years had flown by, and then… the destruction of Gotham; Batman’s death. So, when Dick Grayson— Nightwing, but first Robin— had seen a Batman at the cafeteria table, he had wanted to talk to the man immediately.


	11. Ancient History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and alternate-Dick have a talk. Clark learns more about his alternate-best friend.

Batman and Nightwing walked in almost complete silence to Nightwing’s quarters. “Sorry for the mess,” the young man apologized as he shuffled around folded laundry. Batman stood awkwardly by the door until the younger man invited him in and told him to have a seat at the desk. “So,” the young man started, “I guess I should ask how you know me… where you come from.” 

Bruce almost smiled at his words— he was so like his own adopted son, it hurt. “In my universe, you became my ward at ten years old… when your parents were murdered during a trapeze act. I was there. And when I saw you orphaned… I knew I had to do something, because— because you reminded me of myself; my own parents were murdered when I was eight. A few years after I took you in, I adopted you. At first, I wasn’t planning on having you be my partner, but I saw your— my version of you— need for vengeance and knew from my own battles with it, that it would consume you unless channeled elsewhere. So, I started training you as Robin. Eventually you grew up… we had some… disagreements, and you left the ‘nest.’ Then you took on Bludhaven and became Nightwing.” 

Dick took in this Batman’s words. He felt chills— to think, his parents had been murdered. He felt immense sorrow at the thought and pity for his counterpart, and pity for this Batman, who had obviously gone through a lot of tragedy in his life; Dick’s Batman had never been cheerful, but he had been prone to minute cracks in the persona at times, in Dick’s presence. It seemed like this one let no such human characteristics shine through. But, he was also a little jealous of his counterpart for being able to know Batman as well as he did… and for still having a Batman in his universe as well. 

Dick realized he hadn’t actually said anything in response to Batman’s speech and startled. “Oh… is he a police officer too?” he asked. 

Batman said simply, “Yes.” There was an awkward silence, in which Nightwing was reminded that this man was not his Batman. Nightwing decided to tell Batman about how he met his alternate. The other man was quiet throughout his story. Once again, there was silence, but not awkward. 

“I’m sorry,” said Bruce— the other Batman. Dick was puzzled. 

“What for?” he asked. 

“For my alternate’s… actions. Even if you aren’t my son in this universe, it must have been hard,” he said quietly. Dick swallowed the lump in his throat. Yes, that was one way to put it. He made a snap decision then, trusting his gut, and took off his mask. He stood, arms open and gestured for Bruce. The other man stood stiffly and Nightwing hugged him. The other Bruce stood still, as if shocked, for a moment and then squeezed Nightwing back. After a long moment, Batman— Bruce— cleared his throat and stepped away. 

But, he removed his cowl and Nightwing had to suppress a gasp; the man looked like Bruce— was Bruce— except he was older: the beginning of salt and pepper at his temples, a few more wrinkles at his brow, and he looked… tired, as if he’d seen the world and hadn’t liked what he’d seen. Dick snapped his jaw shut, and averted his eyes, realizing he was being rude. Although he realized, Bruce was watching him too. 

“How old are you?” asked Bruce. 

“Twenty-three,” Nightwing replied. 

Bruce looked thoughtful and replied, “Hm. Dick’s about to be twenty-two in a few months. I thought you looked a little older.” Dick smiled. _Ok, so maybe this Batman had a little humanity in him too._

“Do you, er, have kids…” he asked awkwardly— he remembered Bruce’s wedding to Diana, though no children had come of it. 

Bruce sighed, looking a bit… melancholic. _That’s right_ , Dick thought, _he probably misses everyone from his universe, nice going_. “Yes. I have one biological son… his mother and I aren’t together… and three adopted sons— your alternate is the oldest,” Bruce answered. Dick sensed that there was some history there, and that it probably wasn’t his business. Although he would have liked to see photos of the siblings he never knew. 

Suddenly, there was a squeaking coming from Dick’s communicator. He looked apologetically at Bruce and picked it up. “I have to go,” he said hesitantly. Knowing Bruce, he’d try to sneak away and avoid another emotional scene. 

“Ok,” said Bruce. 

“… Are you staying here?” asked Dick. Bruce nodded, pulling his cowl up. 

“Yes… in my alternate’s quarters,” he replied. 

The two men walked to the door and Nightwing ducked in for another quick hug, saying, “We should meet up again sometime, B.” 

Bruce cleared his throat— god, he missed his life— and said, “I would like that.” 

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Clark was floating down the hall on one of the lower decks by some of the newer member’s quarters when, to his surprise, he heard Bruce’s deep voice and someone else’s. Then Bruce and the other man stepped out of the stranger’s quarters and… hugged. There was something intimate in it— it almost looked like a reunion— and Clark wondered at the relationship behind it. The younger man smiled at Batman, who actually smiled back a little. Clark raised an eyebrow. 

As soon as the younger man left, Bruce turned to him and the warmth was gone from his features. “My son— my son’s alternate, Nightwing,” he explained. Clark was surprised, as Batman, any version, didn’t seem the type for children. 

“Oh,” Superman said neutrally. 

As if sensing his unspoken judgment, Batman clarified, “I adopted him after his parents were murdered… he reminded me of my younger self, in some ways. He’s— his alternate— is my oldest.” _Wait_ , Clark thought— _‘his oldest?’_

“How many kids do you have?” he asked. 

Bruce sighed. Clark felt sudden sympathy for the alienated man— he probably missed his family. “I have Dick, Tim, and Damian… there’s also Jason, I suppose, although I don’t think he counts himself as family,” Bruce said. Clark hesitated, unsure what to say. But Batman surprised him again by answering his unspoken question: “Jason… he was my second Robin but he— the Joker of my universe killed him. He was resurrected by the league of shadows without my knowledge and now is…” Bruce tugged awkwardly at his cape, clearly searching for words, before continuing, “finding himself again. He lives in Gotham.” Clark didn’t know what to say to that. Certainly, a platitude like ‘I’m sorry’ wasn’t the answer. 

“That must be tough,” he settled on. 

“My fault, my consequences to live with,” Batman growled. Clark got the message: prying into personal matters time was over. So, Clark changed the subject. 

“Do you want to head down to the labs? I was thinking I could show you around— although really I’m not the one who does lab work— and we could brainstorm on your… issue,” he said. Bruce paused a moment and assented. 

The two heroes headed down to the elevator and took it to the first sub-ground level where the labs were. Clark gave a quick introductory tour and then the two peeked around to see if any of the league scientists were around. As it was beginning to be rather late, none were. However, their time was not wasted because Clark saw that Bruce seemed to be in a better mood at even having the hypothetical option to work towards a solution. Clark also showed him where the Bat’s alternate’s lab had been— now empty— and said, “I figured you’d want a space of your own to work on this. I don’t think you’ll need an access key, seeing as your DNA is the same as his was... If you need anything, let me know.” With that done, Superman took off.


	12. E-mail from Another Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is in the lab, trying to begin figuring out what happened, and how he can get home. He gets a pleasant surprise.

Bruce stepped forward and pressed a button on the keypad next to the door. He felt the oddest tingling sensation and then a light on the keypad flashed green and admitted him. Stepping into the room, he could tell the space was big. He flicked on the lights and was pleased to see how neat the space was. _Yes,_ he thought, _this would work nicely._ He also saw a computer in the corner. _Good,_ he thought, _it was about time he did some research._

He started with a simple internet search about the JL. He found that they did have teleportation, but no space station, and that they were heroes here. That was a relief. Then he searched ‘Clark Kent’ and ‘Diana Price’ to learn more about who his friends were here. There were no major differences except for Diana’s name, profession— she was an ancient history professor at a university in D.C.— and Clark’s sexuality; he was married to a fellow reporter named Lewis Lane. 

Then he researched the Joker and was surprised to see that his alternate and the Joker’s alternate had worked together for a long time, even prior to the league’s existence in this universe. He also googled ‘Gotham’ and stayed on that subject for a long, long time after… He discovered that after destroying Gotham, Lex Luthor— who was his arch nemesis in this universe, go figure— had received the death penalty and been executed shortly before his alternate’s unfortunate ending. Then, swallowing down his apprehension, he searched ‘Bruce Wayne.’ 

Apparently, his alternate and he had lived similar lives… but his alternate had not decided to play ‘Bruce Wayne’ and instead had been smart— to a point; his alternate had gone to an Ivy League school, but made sure not to get the best grades. After that, his alternate had gone on a tour of the world, never taking a ‘hiatus’ like Bruce had done. He’d returned to Gotham, taken over the Wayne family company and proceeded to… live. Until he had met Diana at a museum fundraiser she was hosting. Then, one whirl-wind romance later, they were married. And then… Bruce’s death. After reading some of the obituaries, he decided he was being too morbid and clicked away from those sites. 

A yawn suddenly interrupted his thoughts. He glanced at the small clock on the computer. It was almost three a.m. He sighed, rubbing his eyes. By his standards, his search barely scratched the surface. But there were a few more things he had to do, he resolved. One was to see what had made him become the Batman in this universe, for Clark had told him that his parents— his alternate’s parents, he reminded himself cruelly— were living, and to Bruce, whose focal point had been the death of those two people for more than fifteen years, that the same event that motivated him was foreign to an alternate him was almost inconceivable. 

But despite his best efforts, he could not determine why… until he saw an article about how Martha Wayne had been paralyzed in a mugging, after attending a movie with her son and husband two decades ago. So, there were some similarities in between universes, he noted, his stomach churning at the thought of that alley, covered in Martha’s blood— that that event had occurred in both worlds. Bruce closed the tab and took a breath. He could do no more research down that field tonight— today, he reminded himself— or it would lead him down rabbit holes he did not want to explore. 

So, he tried the alternate: finding out if his email server existed in this world. His plan was to see if it existed, and if so, then he planned to see if he could have the magicians of this league— namely Zatanna— ‘hack’ it so he could communicate with people in his own universe; two heads are better than one, so if you could have two alternates working on one problem, then why not? He was not hopeful, despite the proven similarities that he had seen that existed between the two worlds. But his email server did exist. Then, feeling silly, he typed in his email and password and pressed ‘enter.’ 

To his immense shock, it worked. He opened his inbox and activated his ‘bat hacks’ that allowed him to use his W.E. email in case of ‘bat’ emergencies and found that he had five messages waiting. The first one read: 

To: B*Wayne@W.E.com 

Subject: Where are you? 

Hi, B. I, Red Robin, and Robin, would all kind of like to know… where the fuck are you? I didn’t receive word that you’d gone undercover, so I sincerely hope we aren’t panicking for no reason… and you just ‘forgot’ to tell us about one of your… projects. 

Sincerely, N. 

The next emails were empty, just had writing in the subjects and they went: Subject: RE: Where are you? Subject: If you can read this, answer the damn email, Subject: B, I’m genuinely worried, and Subject: We figured out what the problem is. With trembling hands, Bruce hit ‘reply’ to the latest email and took a deep breath. 

To: D*R1*Wayne@W.E.com 

Subject: RE: We figured out what the problem is 

First, I am alive and safe; there is a JL in this universe… and doubles of almost everyone we know. My location is the JL headquarters, Metropolis, U.S.A. I am actively trying to figure out a solution to our… problem. Assistance appreciated. 

I request an update on the situation in ‘our’ Metropolis— the event occurred as I was OTW to assist S. Additional updates on status of R2, RR, and RH required. Note: also inquire into well-being of Penny1. 

Closing thoughts: how did you get my email to work?— I assume Zatanna, Red Tornado, or Cyborg assisted. While understandable under the circumstances, please monitor to assure that this account is secure. Will await a reply. Tell R, RR, and RH (if he is speaking to you) that I am safe. Please use your heads, do not patrol alone. Be safe. 

Sincerely, B. 

After that, Bruce, too long removed from family, went through his photos in his email: even if he couldn’t see his boys in person, at least he could look at their photos. A while later, without his permission, Bruce’s eyelids began to droop— it had been a while since he had stayed up early enough to see the sun rise, and he was no longer in his 20’s. Then, abruptly, his head drooped forward to lean onto his desk and his shoulders began to rise and fall gently, signifying to any passersby that Bruce Wayne was asleep.


	13. Hello, Hello, Can You Tell Me How To Get Home?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diana realizes some things. Bruce receives more e-mails from home and starts thinking of what his next steps should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last section of the story I had already written, so from here on, I'll try to write more, but I've been a little stumped on where to go from here. In other words, updates might (will) be slow now, FYI.

Wonder Woman had arrived at the JL headquarters very early the following day. She sighed— although it had been nice to be out of the costume for a few hours, it was always exhausting catching up on her work when she’d been ‘away’ for too long and it was no different this time. It had just turned 5 a.m. when she stepped off the transporter. She suppressed a yawn and went to the cafeteria to grab herself a coffee. Then she went to Superman’s quarters and hoped he was there. It turned out he was, but he was still sleepy and answered the door in boxers and a tank-top; nothing Diana hadn’t seen before, as he was one of her best friends and Amazons did not value formality between friends. 

She handed Clark the coffee she’d picked up for him and once the caffeine hit his system he was much more alert. She let him change and waited in the hall. After he joined her, she asked how the rest of yesterday had been with Bruce as they walked to the man’s room. “I showed him the labs, I think that helped his mood— having the possibility to be useful,” said Clark thoughtfully. Diana nodded— yes, that did sound like Bruce; he always felt better when he was able to do work, even if it hurt himself. They soon arrived at his quarters to find them… empty. 

Clark shrugged at Diana. “He probably got up before dawn to go get started on something. I bet he’s eating right now,” Superman said. Diana set aside her illogical sense of unease and nodded. 

“Yes, why don’t we go check the cafeteria?” she suggested. They checked the cafeteria. No Bruce. 

“Well, he could be at the gym,” Clark said, sounding a hair more flustered. Diana again suppressed her worries, with a bit less success. They checked the gym— no Bruce. Now, Diana was unable to suppress her worry and even Clark’s brow was furrowed. 

“Maybe he already went to the labs,” he suggested a bit hesitantly. Diana was silent. If the two meta-humans rushed to the labs at a pace that was a bit… extreme, it was only because they were eager to meet their colleague and friend there. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Diana inserted her ‘override’ code to the lab doors and scanned the entry log. Nothing for the past year and a half… then Bruce’s entry— but no departure. Okay, she was officially worried. Quickly, she pressed ‘open’ on the door and rushed into the room, only to find Bruce sleeping. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and half-smiled, half-grimaced. She came out of the room and whispered to Clark, “He’s asleep. I think he came in last night and fell asleep working. Can you grab the old cot?” Superman nodded and went to get the cot that Diana had kept in the lab specifically for moments like this with her Bruce… until she hadn’t needed it anymore. Clark had put it into storage, like so much of her Bruce’s things later. A few moments later, he returned. 

Diana accepted the object and floated into the lab. She set up the portable bed and picked up Bruce gently. She set him down and pulled the blanket over him, sighed, and whispered to his unconscious form, “Why do you have to scare me so? Don’t you know you work too hard, Bruce?” Then, with one backward glance, she left the room, shutting the door behind her. 

She turned to Clark and asked, “Do you want to come by in a few hours and check on him, or shall I?” Superman gallantly volunteered for the duty. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping— Bruce sat up abruptly and went to rub his eyes… only to be thwarted by his mask. Oh. He sat up, and looked around, realizing he was still in the lab. Looking around for the source of the pinging sound revealed it was the computer. Remembering that he’d been able to contact Dick, he scrambled up and rushed over to the screen. He had three new messages. 

The first one read: 

To: B*Wayne@W.E.com 

From: D*R1*Wayne@W.E.com 

Subject: It worked! 

Hey, B, good to hear from you. Yes, we had Zatanna and Cyborg both work on this— it was Zatanna who made this work though. We’ve also got Captain Atom and S working on analyzing the area around Metropolis where you disappeared. Glad you’re safe and in good company. N out. 

Hello, B. RR here. Things at W.E. are under control; we told everyone you went on surprise vacation as a very early birthday present from us. RH was unavailable, but is still alive and functional. R is more worried than he’s letting on but is actually behaving for once. We’ll get you home soon. RR. 

Dear Father, do RR and N exist in the universe you are currently occupying? If so, is RR any less annoying? I hope your alternate-colleagues are treating you well. I find that I tire of being surrounded by my… co-inhabitants; Penny1 says that I am behaving adequately. I shall see you soon, R. 

Hello, B. I dare say that the various partners you have acquired over the years are taking your disappearance fairly well; the boys are actually working together without blowing anything up, imagine that. R is quite worried, though N does try to comfort him. RH could not be convinced to write a part of this message, though he does say that it might, just maybe, be good that you have not yet ‘met your maker.’ I am quite sure that between us, you shall be soon home amongst us. Penny1 out. 

Bruce smiled at the email, glad to see that everyone was cooperating and that nothing bad had happened to his little family since his disappearance. He proceeded to open the second email. 

From: Kent.Clark@DailyPlanet.org 

To: B*Wayne@W.E.com 

Subject: Testing 

Hi, Bruce… I don’t know if this worked— Zatanna did some sort of ‘locating/unlocking’ spell thingy so you could use your existing email from this universe in that. So, here goes nothing. 

Clark. 

Sighing, Bruce thought, _when will he learn to not use our names in the field?_ Though, he had to say, it was good to know what kind of magic Zatanna was using, as it could help this version of her find a solution. The last email was a complete surprise. 

From: ReddHoodx@zmail.org 

To: B*Wayne@W.E.com 

Subject: Glad you aren’t dead, old man. 

Let me know if the you of that universe is any less of an a-hole, all right? 

‘Hood out. 

Bruce smiled at Jason’s email. So, he really was concerned. That was nice to hear, as it was a major improvement over the stony indifference, anger, or murderous rage Jason had previously expressed towards his adopted father and— occasionally— siblings. It showed that he did care… at least a little. Then he set about replying to his messages. 

From: B*Wayne@W.E.com 

To: ReddHoodx@zmail.com, D*R1*Wayne@W.E.com, Kent.Clark@DailyPlanet.org 

Subject: Update 

First, to answer S’ question, Zatanna’s ‘system’ does work; please refrain from using names in messages. My situation remains unchanged. Sentiments from all understood and… welcome. Thank you. To N, R, RH, RR: Penny1 is in control of the cave, and so has veto power on who will be going out. Once again, I will remind you to not patrol unassisted. RR, continue your project— perhaps find evidence of BW activities on said ‘vacation.’ S: I believe you should add Etrigan to your team as he has more experience with ‘demonic’ magic. Will seek further assistance from alternates, perhaps a conference call could be arranged? 

B. 

With that, Bruce signed out. He stood, flicking off the computer screen and lights. Then he headed up a few floors, so he could shower and change into the full Bat suit. It was time to begin work on getting home.


	14. You're Gone, But My Mind Ain't In Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has a nightmare, and Clark is there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from the Chef Special song, _In Your Arms_.

Later that night, Bruce startled awake and sat up, heart racing. Growling, he wiped the sweat from his brow and curled his fists into his sheets, pointedly not thinking about what has woken him— that nightmare… the one about his parent’s murder. He suppressed the slightly queasy feeling he got whenever he thought of the blood, _the way it glistened on the one pearl, which had fallen among his mother’s hair, and the small plinking sound as it dripped down her wrist and landed in the puddle they were lying in, turning the water into a horrible shade of pink. Bruce_ — forced himself out of bed, trying to ignore the hammering of his own heart, and the familiar feeling of spiraling sadness. 

He forced himself to breathe in, hold, out, in, hold, exhale, in— but it wasn’t working. Bruce marched to the closet and pulled out the suit, trying to avoid thinking. But that had never been one of his capabilities. His breath hitched once, and as he caught the woeful expression on his face in the mirror, he snarled at himself, _pull yourself together! You are not having a breakdown in the middle of the goddamned Justice League headquarters._

He had pulled the pants on when the lump in his throat finally became too much. Bruce sat on the bed with one ragged gasp, and then suppressed it, holding back the pressure in his eyes by placing his head in his hands. What was wrong with him? Why had he… lost control so easily. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had this exact dream a million times before, because he had. Usually, unless an important anniversary was coming up, he could control his reactions better. 

But then, with unusual emotional clarity, he realized, _oh they’re still alive here… and I don’t know what to do._ Of course, he had known that they were alive the whole day, after doing his earlier research. But Bruce had allowed himself to become distracted by the joyful realization that his boys, and Alfred, were okay, and were working on a solution. Yet, in the back of his head, was that photo of an _aged_ Thomas Wayne, and Martha, too, smiling out from the news story that was only a few years old. 

Bruce realized then that he hadn’t let himself think of that possibility because he was afraid. The realization startled a chuckle— more of a sob, really— out of him. There were the standard thoughts: what if they don’t like me, what if I don’t like them, what if they don’t want to see me, but then too, Bruce wondered: would it be worse, when I go back, if I saw them at all? Because the one characteristic Bruce had that was ironclad was his desperate desire to avoid pain. Oh, sure, Batman got injured all the time, but Batman did not have a heart to break, or so Bruce told himself. But Bruce, that was another matter. 

At that thought, Bruce swallowed another lump and took a shaky breath, wishing he had Alfred here to translate all these feelings for him. He still felt slightly sick, but acknowledged that he did not want to have a breakdown, and so wasn’t going to… more than he already had. Bruce pulled on the rest of the suit, and walked to the door, and stopped as it opened and revealed a slightly disheveled Superman, frozen in the act of knocking. Bruce stared at him, and Clark stared— worriedly— back. 

“How long have you been standing there?” Bruce asked gruffly, still frozen in his own doorway. 

Giving him a deep, unreadable look, Clark said, “Long enough.” 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The pair walked silently, and Bruce let Clark lead, wanting to be anywhere but his own— his counterpart’s— quarters. Also, being able to guess where they were going allowed Bruce to distract himself from the horrible uneasy emotion that was churning in his gut which would burst if he acknowledged it. But despite his game of guessing, it still surprised him when Clark opened the door to… his quarters. Clark turned the lights to low and Bruce tried not to squint at the sudden light. A quick glance at the clock said it was almost three in the morning. He realized Clark had made the bed and was sitting on the edge, a vacant spot next to him, observing Bruce. With a blink, Bruce also realized he’d been standing in the middle of the room, motionless, staring at nothing. 

When he saw that Bruce was ‘back,’ the other man patted the spot next to him and said gently— too gently for Bruce’s liking— “You’re back. It… worries me when you go off like that.” Bruce allowed himself a small smile, because that sounded exactly like something his Clark would say. Reluctantly, Bruce sat on the bed and the pair said nothing for several minutes, just staring at their shoes. 

Finally, Bruce cleared his throat and said roughly, “I… had a nightmare. It doesn’t usually affect me this badly… but I— I have issues that your Batman doesn’t— didn’t.” Clark said nothing for a long enough time that Bruce looked over at him. He had his hands steepled thoughtfully. When he realized that Bruce was looking, he glanced up. 

“I didn’t want to interfere, but when I heard… I felt so bad, I couldn’t just—” he sighed, frustrated. But Bruce understood the message, even if it was poorly delivered. 

“I understand. You wanted to help, but you don’t know me, not really, and I don’t really know you. But I appreciate you trying… You can ask, if you want,” Bruce said quietly, once again looking at the floor. His left boot was scuffed, he’d have to fix that later. 

“What happened?” Clark asked. Bruce swallowed, reminding himself that Alfred was right, and sometimes, talking did help. Occasionally. 

“My parents were murdered when I was eight. I was there. I saw it. Of course, you knew that, but… Sometimes, I get nightmares. I’ve never slept well, and this doesn’t help. While I was doing my research, it brought up some… _things_ , and—” Bruce sighed, trailing off. Abruptly, there was a hand around his shoulders and Bruce nearly jumped out of his skin. 

This was yet another reminder of the differences between these worlds. At home, Clark usually was hands-off unless he felt the case was extreme enough. If Bruce was talking, he usually wouldn’t touch him. After, though, he might. Clark sensed his stiffness and moved to take his hand away, but Bruce said, “No, it’s fine. Sorry, I… like I said, I have issues.” He didn’t want to admit that the weight of his friend’s hand was… comforting. 

There was another silence after Bruce’s awkward speech, but it wasn’t tense or uneasy. Bruce realized how tired he was, in a absent way, as if it wasn’t his body, but a machine— oh, the car is low on gas, oh, Bruce needs sleep. Clark spoke, interrupting his thoughts, “I don’t want to pry, and if it’s inappropriate, I’m sorry in advanced. But, tell me, in your research… how much did you do on Gotham, and how much did you do on Bruce Wayne?” 

Bruce sighed wearily, and unconsciously, exhaustedly, leaned into Clark’s supportive weight a little more. “I read it all, Clark.” he said. 

Clark nodded. That’s what he’d thought, after Bruce had circuitously answered his questions. A heavy weight at his side forced Clark’s awareness out of his own head and he realized that it had been minutes since Bruce had said anything. The man was leaning against him, breathing slowing. His heart thumped peacefully, the blood rushing calmly in even _glug, glug, glugs_. Clark slowed his own breathing and shifted side to side. When the other man was fully asleep, Clark gently removed the cowl and the boots and put Bruce in his bed, then shut off the lights. He sighed, somewhat tiredly, and went to the Cafeteria for a cup of coffee, thankful that his alien constitution was capable of going with so little sleep. He was more relieved that he’d been able to help Bruce.


	15. Sick of the Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after Bruce's meltdown and he's feeling very sick of not getting anything done, and of not being able to leave the JL HQ. Wonder Woman steps in.

The next morning, Bruce awoke slowly, and glanced around in confusion for a couple of seconds before he recognized where he was— _and, oh, god, he’d fallen asleep in Clark’s room. After having a break down. About his parents. With Clark. In Clark's room._ Bruce groaned, somewhat dramatically, before forcing himself to sit up and look for his damn cowl, which was on the bedside table, and his boots were tucked away under the bed. He pulled the boots on and stuffed his head into the cowl with perhaps more force than necessary and went to leave the room. Cautiously, Batman left Superman’s quarters, and grumbling to himself, headed for the cafeteria. Perhaps, Bruce pondered, he could find a way to cook in the lab, so he didn’t have to deal with people. 

After eating— and thankfully no one had bothered him then— Batman stalked down to his lab, in a mood. Part of him could acknowledge that his anger was actually mostly a front, a sense of discomfort at basically spilling his feelings on Clark, but it felt better to be angry— and his situation certainly added fuel to that fire— than to feel uncomfortable. The lab bothered him too, now that he thought about it. The whole room was dusty and filled with equipment he was unfamiliar with. He once again wished for Alfred, or at least a vacuum so he could clean the lab himself. But there was neither Alfred nor a vacuum so Bruce would just have to be content with it. Sighing, Bruce went to check his email. 

It turned out that not even that was very satisfying, as Dick had simply replied, “Sure, it’s a good idea to have both teams on the same page. But we’re still dealing with Luthor, so give us some time.” It was also then that Bruce realized that he didn’t actually know if he had a ‘team’ ready on this side or not. Then he turned to the internet and caught up on current events, feeling more frustrated, and, not entirely surprised by it, more restless. Thinking back on the past days, this was the most inactive he’d been… almost ever. He had not left the Justice League headquarters for days, hadn’t patrolled, hadn’t been outside, had been stuck in the weird headspace between _Batman_ and _Bruce_. Without quite realizing it, he’d typed into the search bar, “Thomas Wayne.” Hesitating, Bruce sighed before clicking ‘search.’ 

His previous research into the subject of his parents, before the breakdown, had been cursory— finding out what had happened in the past. This morning, he wanted to know what was happening _now_. He was not disappointed. Thomas, though less active, still ran Wayne Enterprises, and was sixty-eight. Martha still ran the charities, although she attended fewer social functions, and was sixty-six. Bruce also discovered that they’d bought several apartments around the world— mostly in Europe— but that their main one was across the bay where they’d lived their entire lives… until three years ago. He also discovered that they were holding a costumed charity ball in two days. Suddenly, the air went out of the room. 

Someone cleared their throat behind Bruce and he nearly leapt out of his chair. Recovering, he stood, and greeted, “Hello, Diana.” She smiled at him and he pretended that the extra sparkle in her eyes wasn’t amusement at having startled him. 

“I was wondering where you’d gotten to… it’s been a few days,” Diana said in a teasing manner, but Bruce knew her— her alternate— well enough to know that the teasing tone held a serious question. 

“Clark talked to you, didn’t he?” Bruce asked, grumbling. Diana looked puzzled and Bruce wanted to bang his head against the table for being such an idiot. Now that he was thinking about it, of course Clark wouldn’t have told anyone, even Diana, without asking him first. 

Diana’s eyes narrowed, and she asked, pseudo-calmly, “What did Clark ‘talk to me about?’” 

“Nothing,” Bruce blurted, wanting to scream at how childish that sounded. Diana’s eyes narrowed again as she looked at him and he practically felt the lasso glow at how badly he’d lied. But, surprising him, she let it go. 

“I was actually asking because I know you hate to be inactive, and I believe it has been a few days since you’ve left this building. We can take a teleporter to an island I know of, and spar, if you want,” Diana offered, lips slightly curved up. Bruce was unable to contain his excitement at the thought of getting out of this damn building, and accidentally sent his chair rolling. 

“Yes! I mean, yes, that sounds excellent, Diana,” he said. She smiled, letting him maintain that last scrap of dignity, though he knew she was amused by him. 

“Very well then. Meet me in half an hour outside the cafeteria. Wear something light, where we are going is too hot for the suit. Bring water, too,” she said, waltzing out of the room. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As she left the room, Diana noted the strange behavior Bruce had displayed earlier. It was true though, that Clark had not talked to her. She had not been lying, and now, she had half a mind to find him and… talk. But, she supposed, if Bruce had trusted Clark enough to go to him with his problems, and it wasn’t something he’d chosen to share with her, that was well within his rights. Although, she wished he would feel comfortable enough to share with her. So, grudgingly, Diana decided to leave it alone. But that did not stop her feeling amused at Bruce’s eagerness to leave the building. 

She was like him in that way, and had always somewhat been lacking in patience. If she had been in his shoes, she would have already gotten sick of being in one place. Though she missed home with a fierce ache, she admitted, now, that it was a wonder she’d ever been content to live on the island as long as she had. Diana hummed to herself as she left to buy lunch for their outing, well aware that Bruce would be sick of the cafeteria food, even if it was top-notch. She was very much looking forward to their excursion.


	16. Survivor: Island Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Diana make it to the island. Bruce observes his surroundings, and realizes that things may not be as clear between 'alternate' Diana and him as he thinks...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Subtle reference to "Survivor" cause I'm trash and I actually have seen, like, twelve seasons of it...

Bruce, heeding Diana’s words, changed into a light, flexible pair of cotton pants and a black t-shirt. He wore a pair of specialized boots— he wasn’t quite sure what they were made of, but they were light and looked durable— and a domino mask. Additionally, he filled a canteen and brought along a comm. for good measure. Unsure of what else he might need, Bruce decided it’d be best to bring a small bag, and so found a pack buried in the back of the closet. He put an extra outfit and a first aid kit in it, along with a tube of sunscreen. After that, he really had no excuse to not go and join Diana, who was surely waiting for him now… except, for some reason, he felt reluctant to walk out his door and meet her. Abruptly, he realized that he was nervous. 

Of course, that brought up the question: what did he have to be nervous about? After all, it was only Diana; he’d sparred with her many times, and it wasn’t like this was a date or anything. He’d been about as clear as possible with Diana’s alternate about where they stood, even if he himself at times felt unclear about that with his own Diana. It would not be fair to confuse this woman, because he had no right to claim her, not that she would _ever_ let someone 'claim her,' and did not intend to cause anymore suffering that he already had here. As Batman was no coward, Bruce schooled himself, shouldered the pack, and marched out the door to find Diana. 

Diana was leaned against the wall next to the entrance for the cafeteria, her hair braided loosely in a way Bruce had not seen before on either woman— his universe’s Wonder Woman, or this one. _It looked nice,_ he thought, before he could stop himself. Like him, she wore loose-fitting, light clothing. In her case, it consisted of a olive green sun-protective long-sleeved cotton shirt over a thin gray tank top, maroon knee-length yoga pants, and like him, boots. She sported a pair of sunglasses and carried nothing else other than a beacon for the teleporter and a canteen of water. 

She looked up as he approached and Bruce was barely able to avert his gaze before it would become obvious that he had been staring. He silently chastised himself: _get your head in the game._ She smiled slightly, and her biceps swelled as she adjusted her hair into a bun. “Ready?” she asked. Bruce smirked. 

“Anytime, Princess. Let’s go,” he said. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They walked in silence to the teleporter, and didn’t speak until Diana had finished pressing some buttons and typing commands into the computer. Finally she looked up, eyeing Bruce’s bag, and said, “We are going to a small island in the Pacific. It is a research island, so the only inhabitants are the monkeys and birds. Right now, there are no scientists because they are only allowed there for five months of the year.” Bruce nodded. The island sounded perfect. Diana gestured for him to enter the teleporter and he stepped in. “See you down there, Batman,” she said, pressing a button. 

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The first thing Bruce noticed was the sun. True to Diana’s word, it was hot on the white sand. It would be humid later, Bruce noted, although judging by the crisp sea breeze, probably not too bad. Looking around revealed a deep blue sea line, with coconuts, seaweed, logs, and various other natural debris littering the beach; showing that this place indeed had little human interference. Looking the other way revealed an area that was almost invisible— the shade was so dark compared to the glaring sun that it made it almost impossible to see anything past the first few trees. The jungle did look fairly thick, and consisted of Banyan trees, grasses, palms, vines, and shorter shrubbery. While observing, Bruce rubbed in some sunscreen. 

Just as Bruce was beginning to worry about Diana’s absence, she appeared exactly where he’d been standing earlier, but with a basket in hand. She smiled, the sand making a small squeaking noise under her boots as she approached. “I wanted to surprise you— I packed lunch for afterwards,” she said. Bruce nodded, barely avoiding arching an eyebrow in surprise. This seemed alarmingly close to a date. It made him nervous. 

“Thank you,” he said, to avoid any awkward silences. She nodded, walking over to a shaded log, on the line between grass and sand. Placing down the basket, she began stretching. Bruce followed her lead, glad to be on familiar turf again. Clinically, he thought, _it would be interesting to see how Diana— this Diana— sparred, and if it differed at all from the Amazon warrior he knew._ After several minutes, she stood gracefully from a stretch and looked at him sharply, assessing. He looked evenly back: game on. 

“Ready?” she asked, already tensing for battle.


	17. Send an SOS to the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Diana spar, and they end up in the ocean, which is a good thing, because things have gotten a little... heated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Just a castaway  
> An island lost at sea  
> Another lonely day  
> With no one here but me  
> More loneliness  
> Than any man could bear  
> Rescue me before I fall into despair"  
> - _Message in a Bottle_ , The Police
> 
> Title from the same song.

Bruce and Diana circled each other, moving farther out on the beach, under the sun. Bruce waited, guessing that Diana would eventually lose patience— his Diana’s weakness, if he could say she had one, was a lack of patience. Sure enough, after two more circles, she lost patience, and feigned a leg sweep. Bruce ducked under her flat palm, feeling the breeze as her hand went past where his center of gravity had been. Once she saw that he’d ducked, her leg came up for a kick and Bruce rolled to the side. Diana was there, and Bruce sprung up on his feet just in time to avoid a grasping hand. 

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Fifteen minutes later, Bruce was glad that he hadn’t worn the suit, as he was hot enough as is, and could feel the sun beating down on his dark hair. He took a second to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Neither he nor Wonder Woman had really launched any serious attacks yet. They were still, essentially, testing the waters. He wasn’t really tired yet, but the heat would eventually sap his energy, and he was using a lot of effort to keep track of Diana’s darting attempts to force him into a vulnerable position. Similarly, he was trying to adapt to her fighting style. It was just similar enough to his Wonder Woman’s to prove frustrating when she did something unexpected. 

Suddenly he had to leap aside as Diana barreled forward. She turned around and he used her momentum to throw her, and she landed flat on her back in a puff of sand. She laughed, wiping her sweaty brow, before she sprung to her feet and grabbed him in a bearhug. Bruce let himself go limp and Diana took one stagger-step forward. Bruce broke her hold and moved away, assessing. Then Diana jumped, infringing upon his personal space. Bruce ducked backward, barely avoiding her grasp. 

Unfortunately, he hadn’t counted on the fact that this Diana seemed to know more martial arts than his did— after missing him, she spun into a flying kick, and her foot came around, and hit him in the stomach. Bruce skidded along the beach, coughing on the sand, but rose to his feet. Diana smiled apologetically. “Sorry,” she said, going for another leg sweep. Bruce grimaced. 

“Don’t apologize, I just wasn’t prepared. Your alternate never learned as many Eastern fighting styles,” he said. Diana threw a rapid series of punches and Bruce went silent, focused on not getting pummeled. He waited for her to advance, ducking to the side as she threw her weight forward, then aimed a boot at the back of her knee. She went down for a second, enough time for Bruce to get her in a choke hold. Normally, when Diana, or Clark for that matter, ‘lost’ in a way that would otherwise require them to use their powers to escape, they’d yield. That is, unless Bruce had asked them to spar at ‘full power.’ 

It appeared, however, that they had not done that here. Yes, Diana had been pulling her punches, but it was because she had to, or he’d be putty. So, it was with surprise that Bruce suddenly found Diana’s grip around his forearms, and found that they were airborne. Bruce looked down, seeing that they were over the ocean. Grumbling, he tried to get leverage with his feet. If he had to get wet, at least he could do it on his own terms. Diana seemed to hear him, and asked teasingly, “Do you want me to let go, Bruce?” 

Still shoving against her lower back, Bruce growled, “No.” 

Diana stopped moving, and hovered in place. He could practically see her smiling and his stomach sank as he realized what she was about to do. “No? Okay then,” she said. And suddenly, they dropped from the sky and Bruce barely had time to shut his eyes before they plunged under the surface of the water. Diana let go and Bruce surfaced, a scowl on his face. 

She was laughing, her wet hair hanging half-out of the bun. Using her powers, she was able to stay in place, her body perfectly vertical in the water. She yanked out the hairband and let her wet hair flow wildly. Bruce started swimming for shore, and heard Diana doing the same behind him. As he reached shore, he stood, water streaming off his clothes. Bruce repressed a twinge of annoyance, and was aided by the fact that Diana seemed to be having a good time. It also didn’t hurt that she was equally as soaked. Bruce forced his thoughts away from that and retreated to the log by the basket. Still smiling, Diana trailed behind him, and asked, “You aren’t mad, I hope?” 

“No,” he muttered. 

“Good… I did that to El Kal, once, when he was depowered. We three had a day at the beach— myself, my husband, and he,” Diana said wistfully. Bruce stared for a second, trying, and failing, to keep his lips from twitching up in an amused smile. 

“You dropped Superman into the ocean?” he asked. 

Diana smiled. “Yes. Then we build giant sandcastles here. And he dumped sand on me in revenge,” she said. Bruce didn’t know what to say to that, as it seemed unlike something he’d ever allow Clark and Diana to do with him. Although, he did admit, it sounded a tiny, tiny, tiny bit like it could be fun. 

“Hm,” he finally said, going to his bag, “I’m going to change, then you can show me what’s in the basket.” 

Diana grabbed a beach towel from inside the basket and unfolded it in a particularly sunny spot right where the sand began. She retrieved her sunglasses and put them on. “I will be here, Bruce. Hurry back,” she said. After she lay down, she spread her hair out and closed her eyes. 

Bruce turned jerkily away and retreated into the jungle to change, swallowing hard. He forced himself to pay more attention to where he was going after he stumbled over a root. _Idiot!_ he chastised himself, not quite able to get the image of Diana’s wet hair trailing down her back out of his head, or the memory of her lying on the towel, glowing in the sun, or... Bruce stumbled over another vine. “Goddamnit,” he muttered, not quite able to convince himself it was really the vine he was frustrated with.


	18. Ocean Eyes (Don't get Sucked Out by the Tide)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Diana eat lunch. Diana surprises Bruce (not that he's surprised she does, mind you). An emergency interrupts things.

After Bruce changed, feeling slightly weird at being naked in the jungle, even if it was for a short time, he stuffed his wet clothing into the bag and returned to their “camp.” Once there, Diana sat up from where she’d been drying out in the sun, and stretched. Bruce forced his concentration to removing his boots and socks, which clung to his feet like suction cups. Eventually he’d gotten them both off and set them in the sun to dry. During this time, Diana had retrieved the basket and started revealing the spread within. 

She’d packed everything in ice, which was slowly melting under the blazing tropical sun. In the ice was salami, cheese, olives, some thick slices of bread, water, lettuce, and tomatoes; enough for five people… or one Batman and one Wonder Woman. Bruce realized that Diana had gone silent, waiting for him to say something. “Looks delicious,” he said, reaching for a paper plate and knife. Diana smiled, and carelessly tossed her hair over one shoulder. 

They made their sandwiches in comfortable silence, simply listening to the hush hush of the waves, and the occasional monkey. Diana poured herself a large helping of cool water, and offered the bottle to Bruce. “Thanks,” he said, pouring some into his own canteen; though he didn’t need cold water, he had to admit, it was nice. Bruce devoured his first sandwich, finding that he was actually pretty hungry, despite the heat, and started making a second. He reached for a second slice of bread at the same time as Diana. 

Bruce jerked back his hand and said stiffly, “I was going to offer to make you another sandwich… if you want.” Diana said nothing for a second. 

“I am capable of making my own food, Bruce. But thank you for the offer,” she said. Not sure what to say, Bruce nodded. Diana grabbed her bread, and Bruce snatched his second piece, glad to have the excuse of eating so he didn’t have to talk. _Why did this feel so awkward?_

After they’d finished, Diana leaned back against the log, looking at the sky. Bruce stared out at the ocean. Once again, there was silence between them. Abruptly, Diana said, still observing the sky, “My husband offered to buy me this island once. I refused. Some days, now, I wish I had not, even if it was a ridiculous thing to offer.” Whatever Bruce had been expecting, that had not been it. He found his eyebrows quirking up in surprise and calmed his expression. 

“Oh,” he said, searching for something to say; he usually wasn’t this awkward… 

Thankfully, Diana was gracious enough for both of them, or maybe she’d mapped this conversation out in her head already. “I am sorry we have not spoken more since you arrived. I was… caught off guard, and did not wish to say things that I would regret. I apologize,” she said. This was also not something Bruce had expected, and he found his mouth opening before his _brain_ had any say whatsoever. 

“I understand. I… I know what it is like to imagine the possibilities, of someone who— is not there— being there. My second son, Jason, he had died, but somehow, came back. My parents— they’re alive here. That’s what I talked to Clark about. I’d had a nightmare, and he heard—” Bruce cut himself off before he could be any more of an idiot. Diana’s gaze suddenly focused sharply on him, and Bruce’s heart thudded hard, once. 

She was reaching over, was going to touch Bruce, and he stiffened, swallowing. Diana’s fingertips hesitated, and she lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry,” she said. Bruce laughed darkly and she gave him a puzzled look, not moving her hand. 

“Aren’t we all?” he asked, “In this profession, especially— don’t we all have something to be sorry for?” He looked out at the ocean, but couldn’t ignore the tidal force Diana’s blue eyes exerted, staring at him. He attempted to anyway. Her hand suddenly dropped, and startled, he realized he’d forgotten it was there. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Diana open her mouth to say something, but a sudden buzzing interrupted. Diana fished around in her basket and removed the comm. Bruce was oddly disappointed. 

“Hello?” she asked. “Yes, I have a teleporter control—” “Ok, we’re on our way. Give me two minutes,” Diana said. She stood, and Bruce stood, putting his boots back on. Diana was stuffing things into the basket, and Bruce grabbed anything she didn’t and put it in his own bag. “There’s an emergency in Central City; Weather Wizard is attacking the bank and has caused a power outage all throughout downtown, including at the hospital,” Diana explained. Bruce’s mouth hardened. 

“I’m going with you,” he said. Diana’s eyes flashed before the teleportation beam took them.


	19. Gazing Through the Mirror Darkly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce gets angry. Everyone suddenly sees that no one else is the person they once knew, even if it sometimes feels like it. Things are said and it gets pretty nasty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title adapted from 1 Corinthians 13:12.

They materialized in the league headquarters only to find the computer banks empty. Bruce found it a bit jarring, as usually, the area by the teleporters was where leaguers congregated in an emergency so they could disperse in the most efficient manner. He supposed that maybe there was a conference going on. 

As if reading his mind, Diana said tersely, “They are in conference. Go change and meet me back here. You _can_ find your way back, no?" 

Bruce replied professionally, "Yes." Diana nodded, and they went their separate ways. 

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Once he had changed and made his way back to the computer hub, Diana wasted no time, and said, "Follow me." With that, she strode forward and Bruce followed closely, as now was not the time to get lost. 

After going down the hall, Bruce was reasonably certain that they were heading the wrong way. It was true, he did not know where the conference rooms were definitively, but he knew the general layout of the space. Most of the important areas were on the upper levels. But they were headed _down_. Diana rounded another corner and paused at a doorway. Bruce ignored the pang in his gut and followed. He didn’t know what hit him. 

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Diana was not about to let Batman respond to an emergency call. Bruce was unfamiliar with league protocol, did not have experience with this world’s threats, did not have access to his own equipment, and Hera, he wasn’t even _from_ the universe. So, Wonder Woman had a certain grim premonition that something terrible would happen if Bruce went with the league to this fight. As an Amazon, she knew that premonitions, dreams, or instincts were not to be ignored. She was prepared to take drastic measures to ensure that Batman stayed alive. This included locking him in the holding cells. 

As soon as they teleported aboard, she had told Bruce where everyone was— that had not been a lie— but she lead him to the wrong location. She was sure, by the time they reached the holding cells, that Superman would be well-into the briefing on the situation in Central City. But Batman’s safety was more important. So, the moment Bruce stepped through the door, Diana was ready. 

She grabbed his cape with one hand and wrapped an arm around his throat, performing a blood choke. He was out before there was any time for a struggle. Diana removed his belt and set the time release lock for four hours, just in case something unexpected happened during the fight. Then she shut the door and activated the ‘do not disturb’ protocol— engaged when the league had captured high-level criminals; only founding members could enter. 

Diana took the elevator up and only felt a slight twinge of guilt as Clark’s eyes followed her to her seat. He quirked an eyebrow, asking ‘where’s Batman?’ and she coolly stared levelly back, ‘not now.’ Clark looked away, and Diana tuned into what J’ohn was saying. She would not be losing another Batman today. 

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The first thing Bruce noticed was that his belt was missing. The next thing were the bars keeping him in the cell. After this, Bruce was furious. Not the usual fury he felt facing criminals, not the fury he felt at his boys when they disobeyed orders and put themselves in danger, not even the fury he felt when Clark was being an idiot. No, this was a mind-melting, teeth-grinding, blinding _rage_. How _dare_ Diana decide that he was incapable of responding to a call for help. How dare she disrespect his autonomy. Not only had she taken away his ability to decide, treating him like he was incompetent, she had violated his trust and _knocked him out_ to keep him from having any choice. 

Not to mention, by doing so, she had left him vulnerable. Bruce seethed, fists clenched, cape swirling. He felt his fury compounding, and swirling around in his chest— a tight, thrumming feeling. Abruptly, he punched the wall and shouted, “Damnit!!” He was stuck here until someone let him out. After taking a deep breath, Bruce sat on the bench, fists tucked under his chin, and began deciding what he would say to Diana when she returned. Bruce _would_ make himself understood and Diana would not do something like this again. It was clear that she was not like the Diana of his universe, and he would make certain that she understood his boundaries. 

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Two hours later, Diana returned to the league headquarters, sweaty, tired, and dirty, but triumphant. There had— surprisingly— been minimal property damage, no causalities, and few injuries. Weather Wizard was not usually that competent, and today’s altercation had proved no different. So distracted was she that Bruce had slipped her mind for a few moments. But when she remembered, it brought a sour pang to her stomach, enough to make her emotions clear on her face, evidently. 

Clark asked, “Everything alright, Diana?” 

She turned to him, face neutral. “Yes, El. I just remembered I needed to talk to Batman about something,” she hedged. 

“Ah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. He probably thought it to be something of a personal matter. Diana did not disavow him of this thought. 

“Until next time, Superman,” she said, walking off before anyone else could attempt to converse with her. 

Diana quickly walked to the holding cells, entered the code, and picked up Batman’s utility belt. The man did not look up from where he sat cross-legged on the floor until she had unlocked the cell door. Then, he simply unfolded himself from the position and stood, arms crossed. Diana sighed, having anticipated Bruce’s… stubbornness. She placed his belt on the floor by the door and tried to keep a relaxed stance; body language was important, and she would not be intimidated. 

After a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence, Diana stared harder at Bruce. He looked uncomfortable, like those folded arms were holding in something, be it anger or discomfort, Diana could not tell. She was about to say something when Bruce asked suddenly, voice quiet and clipped, “I presume it went well?” 

Caught off guard, Diana swallowed her thought and said, “Yes.” Bruce nodded minutely, then drew himself up to his full height and _looked_ at her. 

“I realize now, that I don’t know you. I shouldn’t be angry, because you are not the Diana I know, so how can I have any expectations about how we interact if we’re strangers? That being said, I am… disappointed by your lack of respect for my boundaries. Your actions were irrational, potentially dangerous, and selfish. It will not happen again,” Bruce— Batman said coldly. 

Diana’s stomach dropped at the words, and her scalp prickled from the sudden frigidity in the room. Whatever she had expected, this controlled speech, so icy it _burned_ had not been it. She felt sick. And angry. Bruce collected his belt and made to leave. Diana stepped in front of him, barely; if he wanted to leave, he could, he’d just have to move _her_ first. “No. No, Bruce. You do not get to— get to _attack_ me and then leave. I am sorry if I offended you but you must accept that it is not safe for you to engage in fighting here— this is not your home; the rules are different. I know how you get, how you won’t listen to reason—” 

Bruce looked absolutely enraged. He sucked his lips in over his teeth in a suppressed hiss, and Diana heard the plastic of his belt creak under his fists. “— You DON’T KNOW ME! I am stubborn, but that does not mean you get to suddenly decree that I’m incapable of seeing what’s in my best interests and make decisions for me. What would have happened if you had lost and somebody had come here? I was a sitting duck! I WILL NOT BE MADE TO SIT ASIDE AND RISK NOT RETURNING TO MY SONS. I WILL MAKE MY OWN CHOICES. AND IF YOU WANTED TO HELP ME, YOU’D HELP ME FIND A WAY TO GET HOME.” 

At this, Bruce pushed past Diana, grabbing his belt. She felt his shoulder brush hers and limply let the contact carry her sideways. Her vision sparkled, and it felt like she was choking, air burning its way out of her throat in tiny gasping sounds. Her knees gave out and she crouched in a little ball on the floor, one hand holding onto a bar for support. That was how Clark found her. 

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After freshening up some, Clark went to look for either Bruce or Diana. He wanted to know what was going on, because he’d been getting some _weird_ vibes from Diana; it didn’t take super-senses to see that something had happened between the two. Clark just wanted to make sure that nobody had gotten hurt. So, he was wandering the halls, listening for his friends. 

Finally, Clark heard Bruce’s heartbeat… and it was strangely elevated. That either meant he was extremely angry… or very aroused. Clark swallowed, sincerely hoping he wasn’t about to walk in on his two friends while they were fucking; Clark may be a ‘boy scout’ but he was also raised on a farm, and knew a little something about the birds and the bees. 

Instead, what he heard was far worse, as he reached the door and paused outside. Bruce and Diana were having an argument— and Clark’s eyes widened as he realized why Diana had been acting so strange earlier. No wonder Bruce was mad, she’d _locked him up_ to keep him from fighting. Clark was almost exasperated on his behalf. But then, Bruce had become quiet, and the _venom_ in his voice was shocking. Diana started speaking, and Bruce went quiet. 

Clark was about to interrupt when Bruce began shouting, and that, _that_ , made Clark’s eyes widen like saucers, because he could count the number of times Bruce had lost control like that on one hand. He was about to go and interfere when Bruce sped out the door, nearly running into him in his hurry to leave. Clark rushed into the room, fully prepared for the devastation. But he paused slightly inside the doorway upon seeing the scene. Diana was _wrecked_. Eviscerated. Raw. Whatever word he could think of to describe what it looked like to be picked apart by words as thoroughly and scientifically as possible. That was what Bruce had done. It made Clark’s stomach churn, to see this side of his friend. Except, he remembered, this was not _his_ Bruce. Things were different now. It was not a good feeling. 

Clark squatted down by Diana and made hushing noises. “It’s okay. Shh, shh, I’m here, Diana. It’s okay,” he said gently.


	20. You Know We're Headed Seperate Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce tries to take some time to think and calm down from his fight with Diana. He realizes that something has to change, or he'll go mad. He begins to make plans to escape Justice League HQ. But first, he needs to talk to Clark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I don't want to hurt you but I need to breathe  
> At the end of it all you're still my best friend […]  
> You've given me more than I can return  
> Yet there's oh so much you deserve  
> Nothing to say  
> Nothing to do  
> I've nothing to give  
> I must live without you"
> 
> Chapter title from the song _Too Close_ , by Alex Clare. Quote from same song.

Bruce strode through the halls, muscles snapping with tension. He actually recieved a few double-takes, as people moved out of Batman’s way. He was still seething, but under the layer of boiling rage, he felt a distant pang of guilt. He’d _destroyed_ Diana. The guilt wasn’t enough to overpower the anger, but it added something sour to the stew of Bruce’s emotions, left him feeling sick, like the room was spinning, but in a psychological way. 

He reached his quarters and gladly shed the suit, and flopped onto the bed. Staring at the gray ceiling revealed nothing, but it did quiet the shouting in Bruce’s head a little. He ignored the desire to press his face into a pillow and scream. For once, sitting and doing nothing seemed appealing, so Bruce simply lay on his bed and looked at nothing. 

An hour— or a century?— later, Bruce felt… better. Doing nothing had allowed him the space to just _think_ without anybody checking up on him, without any expectations that Bruce would behave a certain way, without the pressure on Batman to come up with a solution. Now his headspace was clear enough to not feel the anger so personally, although it was still there, like a mosquito bite: persistent and annoying, but ignorable. Bruce felt bad at how he’d treated Diana, and decided that he owed her an apology. But the time for that was not right now, not when both of them were fresh from the battle. 

And now that his head felt clearer, Bruce felt the creeping return of that restless energy that he’d experienced almost the whole time he had been stuck here. Sighing, Bruce contemplated his options, but found that either they weren’t appealing, or that he didn’t want to risk running into Diana or Clark; he’d seen the other man there at the holding cells after the fight, and Clark was sure to try to talk to him if he saw Bruce. Bruce was still too raw from the argument with Diana for that to turn into anything good. So it looked like his best option was to stay here. With nothing better to do, Bruce closed his eyes and decided to catch up on his sleep. 

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Later, Bruce’s eyes opened slowly and he realized that his stomach’s growling is what had woken him. A little stiffly, Bruce sat up and decided that a shower would be good, especially if he was going to brave running into Clark or Diana now. He showered, changed, and hesitantly, walked toward the cafeteria. He checked the time and saw it was a lot later than he’d expected— almost ten— so that explained the emptiness of the building. It also meant he was a lot less likely to run into his friends, he acknowledged, with a sharp pang of both guilt and relief afterwards. 

Bruce ate alone, and only saw a few other leaguers come in and out. All left Batman alone. Apparently word had spread of his bad mood. Bruce scowled at the thought, feeling worse by the second. He really didn’t try to be _mean_ to anyone, let alone his best friends, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore the feeling of being trapped— like he was stuck in quicksand— the longer he stayed here. Bruce was an active man, and this forced inactivity was an agonizing torture to him. The league tried their best, but nobody truly knew him here, and they didn’t understand; _his_ Clark and Diana would have, though. 

It was then, as he was fantasizing about escaping the league, that Bruce remembered the event his counterpart’s parents were hosting. It whispered back into his conscious mind, and Bruce realized that he was tempted to go. _You’d be able to leave JL Headquarters, **without** supervision. You’d get to see Martha and Thomas Wayne again,_ his mind whispered, before he could flat-out dismiss the thought again. He scowled, angry at himself. 

It would be stupid to go— not only was it tactically dangerous, as Bruce didn’t know anything about this world, but it was emotional poison. There was no way it would be healthy for Bruce to see what could have been, it would be worse after he remembered he couldn’t have it. Additionally, there was no way he _could_ go, even, as he had no money, no suit, and couldn’t go undisguised. Yet, the thought remained there, and it was tempting. Scowling, Bruce disposed of his trash and returned to his room, trying to kid himself into not planning how he could attend. It wasn’t working. 

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The next day, Bruce rose early, and shut himself away in the labs. If Superman or Wonder Woman wanted to find him, they could. But he was not going to go to them. He still planned to apologize, but even a day later, the wounds still felt raw. He’d let both himself and Diana scab over before talking to her again. 

There was nothing much to do, as Bruce still didn’t have a ‘team’ helping him here. His mood improved a little as he read the latest email from Dick, and got some new info from Clark— apparently, the league had confiscated some kind of device from Luther, and it maybe held the solution to his problems. Bruce tried not to get his hopes up, and was aided in that pursuit by the simple fact that he had nobody to share the news with, and in the realization that he once again felt restless. He’d done pretty much all there was to do in the lab. He kept returning to the thoughts of that charity ball, and shoved it away. 

The gym seemed to be a good solution to releasing some of his restless energy, so Bruce headed there after grabbing some clothes from his room. He paused in front of the private work-out rooms, unsure if that really seemed appealing. Then he saw the entrance to the pool room, tucked away in the back corner of the gym, and he made a split-second decision to go swimming. Finally, he had something to do. 

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A while later, Bruce’s muscles were buzzing, somewhere between pleasant burn and ache. It felt good, to work out again, in a way that had nothing to do with endorphins. Bruce slipped from the pool, showered, and changed. Once he’d hung his wet clothes up over his shower, he went to eat. Nightwing joined him for a bit, and they ate in companionable silence. Nightwing understood him. Nightwing didn’t expect things from him like emotions, decisions, or conversation. Bruce felt better. He decided to go back to the labs and try again. 

This time, he decided to explore the league files to increase his knowledge about this world. It was slow, but rewarding work— the kind of research environment Batman thrived in. Much later, all traces of Bruce’s bad mood had dissipated, and he realized he felt prepared. _Prepared for what though?_ he asked himself. Oh. Bruce realized that he’d been unconsciously preparing to see his— a _version_ of his— parents. And just like that, a decision had been made. He was going to sneak into the charity ball **tomorrow** , and see Thomas and Martha Wayne for the first time in over twenty years. Now he felt nervous. He tried to tell himself it was because he needed to ask a favor of Clark. 

He needed a suit.


	21. A Ball of Costumes and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce goes to the ball. Things do not go according to plan...

Clark opened the door, eyes widening momentarily at seeing Bruce. But he composed himself very quickly, to Bruce’s approval, and eventually let him borrow a suit. From there, it was only a matter of doing a little research into the catering company for the event, hacking into their servers, adding Mr. ‘John Malone’ to the list of pre-approved waitstaff, and making himself a fake i.d. After this, it was only a matter of waiting, and grabbing a teleportation controller so he’d be able to leave on short-notice if he had to. 

Bruce tried to calm himself, feeling his heartbeat thrumming with nervous energy, which made his palms sweat slightly. _There was no need to be nervous,_ he told himself, _he probably wasn’t going to talk to Thomas or Martha, simply wanted to see them. If things went well, then maybe, yes, he’d return later. But this… this was really more of a stake-out. And he was good at stake-outs._ He closed his eyes, and breathed into a short meditation session. Then, he began applying his disguise— a moustache, cosmetics to alter the shape of his face, and a prosthetic nose. With that, he was ready. Bruce took one deep breath before he walked out to teleport down. 

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Bruce stepped cautiously out of the alley, two and a half blocks away from where the ball was. He flashed his i.d. at the back doors, and he was hustled into the kitchen and a tray of drinks was practically thrown at him the moment he arrived; the event was in full-swing and people were thirsty. To scope out things, Bruce played along for the first half hour. Then, under the pretext of needing a refill for his tray, Bruce gave it to a flustered-looking busboy and slipped into the restroom. He pulled off the moustache and began dotting stubble onto his face, and peeled out a thinner goatee. Bruce didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until someone stepped forward towards the mirror, adjusting their top hat, and said, “That’s a great fake moustache. Where’d you get it?” 

A wave of cold ran through Bruce so suddenly it was as if Clark had used his freeze breath on him. Bruce _froze_ for a heartbeat before forcing himself to turn slightly, in acknowledgement, toward his conversational partner, and say, “Online. I found a retailer that usually supplies makeup artists for television, and they were selling sets of them. I figured, ‘why not?’” 

Thomas Wayne nodded, eyes focusing more on Bruce’s face, as if there were something off about it. Bruce swallowed again, sincerely hoping his prosthetic hadn’t fallen off, or something equally as horrible. There was another moment of tense silence. But, finally, Thomas said, “I’ll have to look into that. Tell me, have we met? You look familiar?” 

Bruce smiled indulgently, said, “No, I don’t believe we have, Mr. Wayne. It’s a pleasure,” and stuck out his hand. 

Thomas smiled, eyes crinkling, and said, “Please, call me Thomas, Mr.?” 

And Bruce said, automatically, “Bruce” and froze. 

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The reaction was not instantaneous, but it was near so. Bruce let go of Thomas’s hand and made to leave, heart thundering away, stomach sinking into the ground like a rock. _How could he be so stupid. Any other name. Any other, he’d only had to choose another name, and yet, he’d blurted ‘Bruce’ to Thomas, even after he’d said ‘you look familiar.’ Jesus. Christ. How fucking stupid could he get?_ But he also thought, maybe he’d be in the clear, as he was almost to the door. But then, more quickly than he’d thought possible, his father— the alternate version of his father— had widened his eyes and stepped in front of him. Bruce froze, and barely flinched as the freshly-applied goatee was ripped from his face. Thomas’s eyes narrowed, and Bruce felt automatically, nervous. This was the face his father had made when he couldn’t decide whether he was angry or disappointed, or when he was thinking of how to tell Bruce he’d done something wrong. 

Thomas locked the door, and both men stood there, tensed. Bruce’s heart felt as if it’d lift out of his chest and orbit into space; hopefully Clark could recover it and would bury Bruce intact. Finally, Thomas stared him in the eyes and said, with a small tremor in his voice, “Take it off.” Bruce opened his mouth, brain spinning, to say something, to deny that he was who he was, to say _anything_ , but his father was leveling a look at him again and abruptly, Bruce felt the heat of shame on his cheeks, and turned wordlessly to the sink. 

He grabbed some paper towels and wet them, body on autopilot. He honestly could not say he’d been thinking anything at that moment, mind screaming into the abyss, in shock. How could he have been so colossally stupid? The cold water brought him back a little, as did the pain of tugging the adhesive-adhered nose off. The makeup came off easily, although Bruce still scrubbed roughly at his skin, for good measure. He’d been found out already, there was no point in doing this half-way. He found that his hands were shaking a little and his breath hitched once as he turned to face his father. 

Thomas Wayne had a closed-off, almost clinical expression, except his eyes were too dark to fully maintain the façade. His mouth pursed as he looked at Bruce, and Bruce hunched down, staring at his feet. _This was worse than he’d ever imagined._ Finally, the silence ended, and Thomas said, “Son, I… I’m not going to pretend to understand why you let us think you were dead— I am sure you have your reasons for it—” 

“—I didn’t die. At all. Ever,” Bruce heard himself say roughly, as if he were listening to a conversation from three stories up. He swallowed and continued, “Do you know about Batman?” 

Thomas’s eyes sharpened, his mouth pursed further, but he nodded, once. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Realizing that it would be suspicious to remain there any longer, Thomas allowed Bruce to reapply the nose and goatee, then directed him to a private room, down the hall. By some fortune, no one was waiting for the restroom, so Bruce was able to make his escape. Thomas went to get Martha, and Bruce almost felt faint at those words. As if he were a puppet, Bruce walked woodenly to the private lounge, where the volume dropped, and disappeared into silence. He shut the door behind him, absently removing the nose and goatee. His legs felt numb and his head was spinning and Bruce remembered that he needed to breath and suddenly his eyes stung and his breath was hitching and he needed to sit down. Almost collapsing, he sat in one of the plush armchairs, and furiously rubbed at his eyes. _He would not cry, he would not cry, he would NOT cry, GODDAMNIT!_ And then he heard the door open slowly, and the murmur of Thomas Wayne’s voice saying something to Martha. Bruce stood with a jerk and saw his mother’s astonished, widened eyes. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Martha beckoned to him, so Bruce crouched down within her reach. Martha took his face in her hands and just _stared_ at him and Bruce realized he was shaking again, and his eyes were too hot, and he needed to breathe, _again_. Thomas cleared his throat, and gestured to the couch. Martha let go of her son’s face and maneuvered her sleek, black wheelchair next to Thomas. Bruce sat across from them, and was silent. Thomas cleared his throat and requested, “Tell us everything, Bruce.” Bruce nodded, took a deep breath, and started from the beginning. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The beginning was the hardest part, of course. Bruce didn’t realize how tight and almost breathy his voice had gotten until Martha had reached out a hand, and her fingertips had touched his clenched right fist. Bruce swallowed, blinked, and tried to push on, staring at the floor. When he reached the _gunshots, the blood dripping onto the pavement, the sudden sense of being alone,_ he _felt_ the shudder run through his father, and heard Martha gasp. He had to look up, to make sure they had survived even hearing about what had happened to their alternates. They had. But they’d obviously been shaken. Bruce blinked again, and forced himself to carry on. He needed them to know. All of it. Every detail. Every hour, every bead of sweat, every case. All of it. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Finally, Bruce reached his current predicament, and stopped talking, and realized how dry his throat was. Unbeknownst to him, Thomas had gotten up and grabbed three glasses of water and some tissues for Martha. Bruce swallowed, and tried to be more present. Thomas sat back down and Martha sniffed once more, then resolutely set aside the box of tissues. There was a muffling silence in the room, as if Bruce and everything around him were dampened by a heavy cloth. Finally, Thomas took a sip of his own water, and asked, “So… do you have a way home yet?” 

Bruce allowed himself to clear his throat, once. “No. But I’m— my sons, colleagues, and I— are working on it.” 

There was another beat of silence, not quite as stifling, and Martha asked, “Do you have photos? Of your boys.” Bruce smiled. 

“Yes. Not with me— but, yes,” he replied. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After that, the three Waynes talked a little more. But, this event was important, and it would not do for Thomas and Martha to be missing for much longer. Reluctantly, they left Bruce behind, promising to be back in a few hours. Thomas locked the door and Bruce sat heavily in the chair, mind reeling still. _God, was he tired_. It amazed him that this was real, that he was actually here, and had talked to his parents. For a moment, Bruce was just content to sit there, staring into space, mind quietly spinning. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hours later, Thomas and Martha Wayne bid some of the last remaining guests farewell, slipping away hurriedly before anyone else could bother them. They made their way down a hall, Martha murmuring something to Thomas, who muttered something back. Both felt an kind of eager, almost nervous, energy. Nobody followed, no one saw them slip away. Once they had reached the lounge, Thomas unlocked the door, hurriedly closing it as soon as his wife’s wheelchair had passed through. 

Martha had left his side and had softly maneuvered over to the source of the low, almost-rumbling sound, which Thomas realized was coming from his son— his son’s alternate. He took a moment to assess his son, and could not help but slip into his critical doctor’s-observations. For what Bruce had said his age was, he looked _tired_ , almost prematurely old. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and his hands were scarred. Thomas had no doubt that the rest of him would be the same: scarred, physically and mentally, with perhaps the muscle damage, and ground down joints and cartilage to go with it. A sharp pang went through him, and he cursed his alternate for ever being foolish enough to take that deadly shortcut down an alley. 

He realized he was gently shaking that muscled shoulder. Bruce stirred under him, and abruptly came awake. He stood instantly, almost stiffly. And Thomas heard himself asking, “Would you like to come to the apartment with us, Bruce?” His son, eyes slightly wide— and, again, here was a hint that this was not his Bruce. This Bruce had never gotten over the youthful adoration of his own father, had never learned that no man is perfect, even one’s own progenitor— and he had no idea how to interact in a mature, adult way with Thomas. But he said yes, and that was that. The three, after Bruce had put on that silly nose and goatee, left through a side exist, and Thomas called his driver. Then it was a short, quiet ride back to their current home. 


	22. Nunca Es Suficiente (It Is Never Enough)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce spends some time in the ~~manor~~ apartment with his parent's-alternates. Yeah, it's as weird as it sounds. Clark shows up.
> 
> "Mi corazón estalla de dolor  
> ¿Cómo evitar que se fracture en mil?"  
> My heart bursts with pain  
> How to avoid it fracturing into a thousand pieces?  
> - _Nunca Es Suficiente_ , Natalia Lafourcade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to get an update out (though I did tag 'slow updates' in the summary, so fair warning?)! Also, I lost track of the plot for a bit in the last chapter and forgot that Martha Wayne was in a wheel chair in this AU! So I went back and fixed the inconsistencies in the last chapter if you want to go back and re-read it; the plot didn't change, but, this is just a fyi.
> 
> Also, song lyric translation probably isn't perfect, but don't @ me unless I seriously messed it up. 
> 
> Title from the same song I quoted (<3 Natalia Lafourcade).

This would be the first time Bruce had spent the night anywhere but the JL Headquarters. The cool night air felt, somehow, crisper, sweeter, lighter. Or maybe that was just his head reeling, or an aftereffect of the butterflies in his stomach flurrying about in a panic. As the car pulled up to the unfamiliar apartment and slowed, it felt as if Bruce’s worry had decided to pump the gas and speed off into the night. He realized for the first time, with abrupt shock, _I am going to have the unadulterated attention of my parents_. The thought of disappointing them made his stomach feel like he’d swallowed a pound of lead. The thought of being disappointed by them made him want to eat more of said lead so he could sink into the ground and not return. 

Bruce felt these things, and realized that they stemmed from his unconscious expectation that he would not see Thomas and Martha at the party, or that their interactions would be short and sanitized; just enough for him to picture what could have been, without having to become too emotionally involved. But now, he was _really here_ and was going to have extended, personal conversations and interactions with them, and Bruce realized, _he hadn’t prepared for this. At all. He had not decided what to filter, what topics were best. He didn’t know how to have a conversation with his own parents— alternate versions of his parents. He had not prepared for this_. 

Without quite realizing it, Bruce had followed his father to the door, Martha coming up the ramp behind them almost silently, just the slight whine of an electric motor gave her away. Bruce swallowed convulsively before mentally castigating himself: _he was the goddamned Batman. He could do this_. So, forcefully, Bruce pretended that he wasn’t nervous. Bruce pretended that he wasn’t terrified out of his mind of saying the wrong thing, of being disappointed, of disappointing. If he let himself go down that path, nothing good would happen. So he didn’t. Simple as that. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the door was locked and the lights turned on, Thomas led Bruce on a small tour of the downstairs. It was both like the manor, and not, in strange ways. It was clear that the same tasteful eye had decorated this place— Martha— but it was… more condensed. There was not the wide hall of portraits, and of long, velvety curtains. There was not the huge study with odds and ends stacked on the bookshelf. There was not the plush, almost-overly-decadent, but not quite, living room. 

There was, still, a large ornate fireplace, lofty ceilings with scrolling woodwork, antique oak, cherry, and teak furniture, there were landscape paintings and still lives of fruit. The kitchen was huge as ever. The floors were covered in oriental rugs. The bookshelves were full of old medical texts, with some sentimental items thrown in. It was similar, but not enough— or maybe, _just enough_ to make Bruce’s heart ache in a peculiar way that was both sentimental for his own childhood and sad at the obvious differences. 

When the tour arrived in the kitchen, Martha turned on the kettle, selected a jar of tea, and turned to Thomas. He set down three white mugs in front of his wife, who nodded, a small smile on her face. She turned to Bruce and asked, “Do you still like Peppermint?” 

“Yes,” Bruce said, swallowing. Martha flashed him an encouraging smile and turned to pour the leaves into the filter. Once the water had boiled she steeped the tea and all three Waynes kept silent as the scent of Peppermint Tea slowly permeated the tense air of the room. 

Then Martha removed the tea leaves, added a bit of milk to her own tea, a bit of sugar to Thomas’s and nothing to Bruce’s. A bit of his heart unclenched at the fact that she, despite not _truly_ being his mother, still knew such a small, important fact about him. Maybe this would not be the disaster Bruce had feared it would be. He picked up his tea and followed his parents into the living area. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thomas sat in the big, gray midcentury modern armchair. It clashed with the more classic décor, but Bruce could almost see the story behind it, the compromise of Martha wanting her husband to still feel like some part of this place was his. In the manor, that had always been Thomas’s (and now Bruce’s) office. Here, it appeared to be this chair. Martha sat to his left, mid-way between Bruce and Thomas. She sipped from her mug and then asked, “Tell me again, how long exactly have you been… Batman?” 

“Thirteen years,” Bruce said. Martha’s eyes widened a little, but she said nothing else. 

“So, Bruce. You said Alfred took charge of you?” Thomas asked, omitting the ‘after we died.’ 

Sipping from his own mug, Bruce replied carefully, “Yes. It was specified in the will, apparently. He’s always done his best to look after me… I was surprised to not see him here.” 

Thomas grimaced. “Yes, well, he was too stubborn. After that night… he felt it was his fault, for letting me persuade him to take the night off, and not drive us to the theater… after what happened, he resigned, despite our protests. He runs a theater group now, does performances of Shakespeare, things like that. Quite well, too. We go on opening weekends.” Bruce, despite the unease he felt at the mention of _that night_ , quirked a small smile, amused. 

“Well, he always told me if he hadn’t ended up a butler, he would have been an actor. I’ll have to tell him later. He’ll be amused,” Bruce said. Thomas laughed, but there was something uncomfortable about it. Maybe it was that his ‘son’ was talking about another man as if he were his father, and not the man sitting right in front of him. Bruce didn’t notice. 

“Speaking of family, I know you said you have children, Bruce. Tell me, how many are there?” Martha asked. 

Bruce smiled more easily at this, although he did feel a sharp ache too, at the mention of his children. “I adopted Dick, Jason, and Tim. Damian is mine, biologically. But his mother and I are… not on good terms. Dick is my oldest. He’s a police officer in Bludhaven. I adopted him when I was 26. His parents were trapeze artists— good ones— but were murdered during a performance. I was there. That was one of my first serious cases. Jason is… complicated. He’s struggling right now. I adopted him after he stole three tires from the bat— my _other_ car. Tim actually found me, after Jason… left. I wasn’t originally going to take him in, as he still had parents, the Drakes. But a few years after I got to know him, his mother died and then his father was murdered. So I was the only one there to look after him. I didn’t find out about Damian until a while after that, and then one day, his mother showed up with him and dropped him on my doorstep. He’s been with us ever since. The kid loves animals; he has five pets, that I know of,” he summarized. Martha smiled, eyes light and happy, and Thomas looked pleased. 

“That’s quite the brood you’ve got yourself,” he said. 

“Yes. They have a running joke that I’ll keep adding more once Damian and Tim leave, because of empty nest syndrome. I hope to prove them wrong, though,” Bruce admitted. Martha laughed. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I assume there is still plenty of room in the manor,” she said. 

“Yes, although it _feels_ like less when they’re all home. I really pity Alfred, at times like that,” Bruce said. 

“I would imagine,” Thomas chortled. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They sat around lightly discussing things for hours more. Bruce got the sense of the traumas in their lives by what they did _not_ say; he was good, too good, at reading between the lines, because of his detective work. They in turn did not ask about his own obvious omissions, or about Batman. Though Bruce could feel his father’s sharp eye on him and it almost felt… assessing. He did his best to ignore the unease of that sensation. Eventually, Martha yawned, interrupting their conversation. 

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” she said, sounding regretful, “but my old bones don’t take to these late hours of socializing as they used to. I think it’s time we all went to bed. Thomas, dear, would you show Bruce where he’ll be staying?” She came over and Thomas crouched down for a quick kiss. Bruce leaned over for a hug, and smiled as Martha’s arms came around him. 

“Good night,” she said, retreating. 

“Good night, dear,” Thomas said. He waited until she was gone to take Bruce to the stairs and lead on. 

As they were walking up, a pensive silence fell over them. Bruce sensed that Thomas was mulling over something, but hadn’t quite decided how to phrase it. Finally, they reached the door of a room and paused. “This was your room,” Thomas said, somewhat softly. Bruce paused, about to reach for the handle. He waited. The tension frizzled in the dark. 

“Bruce,” Thomas said, tone neutral, thoughtful, “how long do you plan to be Batman? Have you thought ahead? If something happens… do you have plans for your children? I couldn’t help but notice… your scars. On your hands. I imagine they are not limited to that area. If I may be so bold— and lord only knows I am not your real father, but humor me anyway— who is your doctor?” 

At this, Bruce tensed. _Ah, here was the unexpected, and unplanned-for, thing he'd been dreading_. The out-of-my-depth feeling he had been expecting this whole evening suddenly bloomed. “I… haven’t considered retirement. I don’t think I have any imminent plans to. As far as my children, yes, I have a will, a very specific one, on how they will be cared for. And I do have plans… in case anything goes wrong. Alfred, in addition to being a fantastic butler, was a medic in the British Special Forces, and I also have Leslie Tompkins, for emergencies. She was a colleague of yours, in my universe,” he replied, a bit stiffly. Thomas nodded but did not question more. 

He walked to the beginning of the staircase and said, “There should be clothing in the dressers, and if you go down the hall, the bathroom is on the left. I believe we have extra toothpaste and such in the closet. Good night, Bruce.” Bruce swallowed. 

“Good night,” he said softly. He placed a hand on the doorknob, mind reeling. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, much of the morning was spent reminiscing. Bruce learned more about this world, told a bit more about his, and found his mood _lighter_ than it had been for a while. Maybe for years. He decided, that perhaps, this experience would be worth the pain he would feel later. It felt good to laugh over a breakfast that Martha had cooked. It was wonderful to have Thomas asking questions about the running of W.E. and how Bruce was keeping the company. So it was a bit of a shock to have this dream-like experience interrupted. 

Around eleven, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Martha said, leaving the kitchen. Bruce kept half an ear open, out of habit, but turned back to Thomas. So it was with surprise that he heard Martha say, “Oh, hello, Clark. Yes, they’re just through here. There may be some bacon and coffee still if you hurry.” 

Bruce cut himself off and looked up as Clark appeared in the doorway. He had to blink, the sight was so bizarre. He felt the sudden urge to pinch himself, remind himself that this was not a dream. Clark smiled, a bit tensely, eyes flickering over the scene. “Hello, Dr. Wayne, Bruce,” he said. _Now that_ , Bruce thought, _was odd_. Thomas smiled, gesturing to the empty chair. 

“Mr. Kent! Pull up a seat, have some coffee, and some bacon. Tell us why you’re here,” he said. Clark smiled again, and he was _definitely_ tense about something. Bruce shifted slightly, waiting for whatever he was going to say. 

“Actually, I’m here to borrow Bruce from you. We think one of our colleagues has made progress on finding a way to send him home. If it’s not a problem, I’ll let you all say goodbye before we head back,” he said. Thomas nodded. 

Martha sighed, but said practically, “Well, I suppose it’s for the best. Thank you for warning us, Clark.” Clark ran a hand through his hair, awkwardly stepping backwards. 

“I’m just gonna wait in the entryway. Call me when you’re ready,” he said, disappearing. 

Thomas stood, and Martha came closer. “Son,” Thomas said, eyes a bit too bright, “it’s been an honor. I am so glad we had this opportunity to meet you, even if it was only for a short while. You’ve become a fine man, even without us there. Tell Alfred I appreciate him, and say hello to my would-be grandchildren!” With that, he crushed Bruce in a hug. Bruce swallowed convulsively and tried to ignore how the room had suddenly become blurry. Thomas let go and Bruce straightened up, turning to Martha. 

She smiled, lips quivering. Bruce quickly wiped a tear from his eye. Martha sighed. “Oh, come here!” she said. Bruce bent down, and she squeezed him with a surprising amount of strength for a sixty-six year old woman. 

“Bruce Thomas Wayne, I am so proud of you. I wish we could have been there for you longer, but, you have clearly been a dutiful son. Thank you for being brave enough to find us here,” she murmured. Bruce smiled, covertly wiping his eyes again, his heart feeling like it was in a press. A few moments later, Martha released him, giving him one last squeeze before doing so. Thomas patted him on the back and gestured to the kitchen door. 

Clark looked up as they entered the living room and he stepped forward. Bruce paused, and cleared his throat. “One moment… Clark, do you have a cell phone? I’d… I’d like a picture. Please,” Bruce said gruffly. Clark nodded, kindly ignoring his emotional state. 

“Yes sir. Now, where do you want me to take it?” he asked. Thomas pointed to in front of the fireplace mantle. 

“Right about there seem good?” he asked. Clark nodded. 

Thomas stood tall on the very left. Bruce crouched down next to Martha. With a start, he realized that Thomas had laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. Clark backed up, squinting at his phone’s lens. “Ok, smile on three, or, I guess, pose… Ok, one, two, three!” he said. Bruce let a hint of a smile cross his face and saw out of the corner of his eye, that Martha was smiling. 

Clark requested that they look through the several shots he’d taken and they chose the best one. That he sent to Bruce’s email and Thomas’s cellphone (he had had his number in case of emergencies, in case anybody ever connected the bat to Bruce). While this was happening, Bruce’s heart continued to sink and he felt incrementally like he was watching his life slip away again. He tried his best to clamp down on the feeling. 

Finally, there was no excuse to stay any longer. Clark tactfully retreated a little and Bruce turned to his parents. He smiled waveringly. He hugged Martha, making sure to memorize the way her shampoo smelled, the precise warmth of her arms. He straightened, and turned to Thomas, wiping his eyes. He was less inclined to be embarrassed when he saw that Thomas’s eyes, too, were watery. He squeezed Bruce in a bearhug, thumping his back several times. “Goodbye, my boy,” he said roughly. Bruce swallowed, throat catching on the golf-ball-sized lump that had sprung up there. He forced himself to let go first, knowing that otherwise, he never would. 

He retreated to Clark’s side and turned back, hesitant smile on his face. “Goodbye… it was nice to get to know you,” he said, turning away to follow Clark’s retreating form out the door. He didn’t look back, but sensed the gaze of his mother and father, like the glow of the sun upon his back. Bruce’s heart trembled and he blinked, eyes suddenly hot and stinging. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Clark was waiting for him. Bruce shut the door, taking several shaky breaths. He blinked under to too-bright sky as Clark walked forward in silence. Finally, they reached an alley, and Clark listened a moment, probably confirming that they were alone. Finally, he looked at Bruce, a spark of concern in his slightly-too-wide eyes. “You alright?” he asked. Bruce took another shaky breath, brought his hand up to rub his eyes. 

“Yes,” he said, “I… I'm glad I did that.” Clark seemed to accept this. He nodded once and went to pull an item out of his pocket without comment. It was a teleportation beacon. 

“Ready?” he asked. Bruce nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak again just yet.


	23. There Must Be Some Kind of Way Outta Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zatanna thinks she may have found a solution. But it's tricky... as in _demonic_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the song _All Along the Watchtower_ , by Jimi Hendrix.

They teleported into league headquarters and Clark said as he walked forward, “So, Zatanna was poking around and she thinks she may have found a spell that whoever sent you here could have used. I don’t know. All I heard was that she needed to talk to you… and speaking of talking to people… you need to talk to Diana.” Bruce stopped and Clark stumbled to a halt in front of him, arching an eyebrow as he turned to look at Bruce. 

“I know…” Bruce said, pausing to think, “I was already planning on it. But I didn’t want to before because we were both still angry. Neither of us were very… polite that day, me especially. I— I’ll make sure to get it done.” 

Clark looked at him a moment and nodded once. “Good. I just wanted to make sure you two get things sorted out… other than that, I’ll stay out of it,” he said neutrally. Bruce felt a wave of relief. This was another difference between this world and his. _His_ Clark would have been a lot nosier. It was what made him both so frustrating and endearing. 

Bruce cleared his throat before he continued walking. “Thanks.” 

Clark nodded and lead the way. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It turned out that they were headed to a conference room. Zatanna was seated, a large book in front of her. She was muttering something in a language that Bruce thought could be Latin. She looked up when they entered, a brief smile flashing over her face. “Batman! Finally!” she said. Bruce smiled patiently. 

“I heard you wanted to talk to me,” he said. Clark hovered by the door. _Is he weakened by magic here too?_ Bruce pondered briefly. It wasn’t like he could ask with Zatanna right here, in case it was a secret or something. “Superman, if there’s anything you need to know, I’ll tell you later. Thank you for bringing me here,” Bruce said, giving Clark a small, pointed look. His friend’s— alternate friend’s— eyes sharpened and he nodded. So, apparently he was vulnerable to magic here too, then. 

“Alright. Let me know how it goes,” he said, stepping out of the room. 

Once the door shut, Bruce turned back to Zatanna, who held up a hand as she skimmed another page of the book. Bruce was certain that the language in it was not Latin, but it seemed very close to it. Finally, Zatanna looked up. “If you must know, it’s demonic. The ancient demons thought it’d be funny to use the same language that the church used. They haven’t caught onto English still, apparently,” she said. 

“Hm,” Bruce said, not really sure what to do with that tidbit of information. Zatanna sighed, shutting the book. 

“I’ve asked you here because I think I may have found something— Superman probably told you that. There’s good news and there’s bad news. How do you want it?” she asked. 

“Bad news first. We’ll go from there,” Bruce said. Zatanna nodded. 

“Thought you’d say that… Okay, here it is. I think I may have found a spell that could have been used to send you here, that’s not the bad news. The _bad_ news is that it’s demonic magic, and I’m not entirely sure how they got it to work on you. If I’m right about which spell it is— along with how this person used it— then by all rights, it shouldn’t have worked on a human because it’s a demon summoning spell. if I had to guess though, I’d say that they probably found a loophole or ‘tricked’ the spell into thinking you’re a demon— which, I guess, with the whole ‘bat’ thing and your attitude… Well, anyway, _if_ I actually found the right spell, and _if_ I can figure out how to use it and _if_ it can even be reproduced properly in this universe, you may still end up somewhere… else. That’s the _really_ bad news. Because, if the spell thinks you’re a demon and I try to use it to send you back—” 

“I might end up somewhere I really don’t want to be,” Bruce supplied grimly. Ah, that would be… unpleasant. 

Zatanna grimaced. “Right. So, that’s the bad news.” 

“The good news?” Bruce asked sarcastically. Zatanna smiled. 

“The good news is that _your_ Zatanna contacted me and now we’re both working on the problem in earnest. If I can’t get the spell to work, maybe she can. Or maybe we can work around it. Also, she said that their league is working on Luthor’s device still, and getting close. Cyborg— whoever that is— said that he’s close to finishing his analysis of it. He says to tell you his tentative conclusion is that it looks like a ‘boom tube.’ So there’s that,” she said. 

Bruce nodded, frowning. It wasn’t like Lex to use magic, let along demonic magic. It didn’t really fit with his M.O. although, it was true, that if he was fighting Superman— and when wasn’t he?— he’d want to do it efficiently. And demonic magic would be… efficient. But then, why send _Batman_ here? From the sound of it, the spell had been ‘personalized’ for Bruce. That did not fit Lex’s M.O. unless it was part of some larger plan that the league had interrupted. Even then, it seemed odd, to say the least. Luthor was rational, like Batman. He didn’t like magic. So who would have the power, or the skills, to persuade him to mess with it? Not that many of Bruce’s own rogues dabbled in magic either. And those who did would be somewhat unlikely to partner with Lex… Sudden motion interrupted Bruce’s thoughts. He looked up. Zatanna was smiling knowingly. 

“Sorry to interrupt you. But, what are you thinking?” she asked. 

Bruce growled, annoyed at the puzzle. “I’m not sure. What you’re saying makes sense… but I just can’t see the _connection_. From what I know, the person behind this had no reason to send me here, and his M.O. doesn’t usually include magic— let alone the demonic variety. Then there’s the issue of the boom tube. I’ll need to talk to people on my side and see what they’ve found. Then I’ll get back to you. Thank you for keeping me informed,” he said. 

Zatanna smiled. “Of course! And Bruce… if you ever want to talk, I’m here. As a friend,” she said hesitantly. 

He smiled, genuinely, and replied, “Thank you. If I need to… I will.” With that, he stood, and retreated to his room, mind already moving onto his next tasks: talking to Dick about an update… and apologizing to Diana.


	24. Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce says sorry. Progress in the search for ways to send him home is made. Dick (from Bruce's own universe) sees some stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My heart is wasted and cut up like a drug […]  
> And these conversations choke us 'til we're numb  
> No matter what we're saying, it never seems enough […]  
> My voice is twisted, guilty goes the tongue […]  
> And I'm sorry, sorry  
> What do you want, what do you want me to say"  
> - _Sorry_ , Meg Meyers

Bruce wasn’t sure how he should apologize to Diana. He wasn’t sure if she’d prefer to see him face-to-face (so she could punch him) or if she’d prefer to keep a cooler, less-punchable distance. Partly this was because he didn’t know this Diana. Partly because, he admitted, a bit ashamedly, he rarely apologized to _his_ Diana. So Bruce, because he was a damned coward— despite the bat insignia on his chest— decided to write his apology out and let her come to him. He sat in the lab, pen in hand (he wasn’t so much of a jerk that he’d _type_ something like this) pondering what to say. So he finally just decided to write it all out, and if needed, cut out what was unnecessary (what he wasn’t brave enough to say) later. 

Bruce wrote: 

_Diana: The first thing I should say, since this is an apology, is ‘I’m sorry.’ I was rude, cruel, thoughtless, and I let my anger go to my head. There were better ways to handle that situation. One thing my Diana knows is that my head is often hard and sometimes I require (forceful) guidance to see how I may, intentionally or not, come off as abrasive. So there’s that. Secondly. I’m sorry for being a burden on you. I know how difficult it must be to see my face,_ and he discontinued that thought, bringing the pen to his mouth. That would not lead down happy roads. Bruce tried again: _I appreciate your willingness to help. I didn’t apologize before because I did not want either of us to say anything more damaging in our anger. Zatanna told me that she may have found a solution, so I just wanted to clear the air between us, before it is too late. -B._ Something in the message felt incomplete, but, even a half hour later, Bruce couldn’t think of what it was that was missing, so he forced himself to his feet and went to deliver the message. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dick Grayson was worried. He was usually worried about something, but it wasn’t normally that difficult to hide it. It was harder to do so with this. Bruce had been gone for a while now, and though Dick knew that he was alive— and doing okay, by all reports— it was still disconcerting being around the manor without him around. It didn’t help that Dick was exhausted— because Bruce was gone, that meant Clark and Dick had to take shifts as the bat, so nobody got suspicious. Between that, helping Alfred maintain order in the manor, patrols as Nightwing, and work, Dick had been getting very little sleep. Also, there was something extremely disconcerting about wearing the Batsuit. Dick shivered at the thought of it, sincerely hoping he’d never have to do it again in the future. 

A sudden buzzing of Bruce’s phone caught his eye. Dick had more or less placed himself in charge of answering Bruce’s email and phone and other things since he knew both how to schmooze people into believing he’d pass a message along to the big man himself and because he knew how to write like Bruce the best— there was something to show for being the oldest of Bruce’s children. But, to his surprise, it was an email from Clark— not _his_ Clark, but the other Clark. There was no subject, no text, just a single image attachment. Curious, Dick clicked open the link and his jaw dropped when he did. 

“Oh my god,” he murmured, heart squeezing. Dick took a breath and closed his eyes, feeling the sting of tears, knowing what this would mean to Bruce. To him if their places were reversed. Dick took another deep breath and zoomed in on the image, chills running down his spine. Yes, there was Bruce… and the alternate versions of his parents, and suddenly, Dick knew what Bruce would look like in his 60’s. His heart was thundering in his chest and Dick set down the phone a moment, closing his eyes again to compose himself. _This would be fun to talk about when Bruce got back_ , Dick thought ruefully, _God_. Dick honestly didn’t know what he’d do if he were in Bruce’s position. He rubbed his eyes, tired. Feeling overwhelmed. 

But, suddenly, another email alert went off— this time, addressed to Dick himself— and he was forced to tear his attention away from the reminder of what could have been. He wondered absently if this was what Bruce felt like, sometimes. It startled a chuckle out of him. Dick forced himself to focus back on the email he’d received. Clark had written: “Hi, Dick! Have you talked to Etrigan yet? I know Bruce wanted us to, but… I’m not a huge fan of magic. I know the Zatannas are talking, so I figured it’d be a good idea to bring him in too. Cyborg says there’s definitely something off about this boom tube device, and I think it almost looks like Brainiac’s work. Oh, I can take next Thursday, if you want. That’s all for now.” 

Muttering, Dick responded, “Hi, S. I’ll contact him right away. Hm, I’ll let the others know about the boom tube stuff, sounds promising? And it’d be great if you could take Thursday. Let me know if B contacts you, and I’ll do the same. I’ll let you know how it goes with Etrigan.” He pressed send and went to suit up. It looked like he had a demon to find. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce took a deep breath, and then knocked on Diana’s door. She opened a moment later and a look of surprise briefly passed her features before she suppressed it for something more neutral. “I…” Bruce said. He shoved the folded note out into the gap between them. Diana looked down at it in amusement, then back up at him, face more composed. Bruce took a breath and tried again. “I wrote you an apology note.” 

This time, her amusement could not be hidden. “And you decided to deliver it yourself?” she asked. Bruce nodded, and retracted his still-outreached hand, feeling silly. 

“I thought I owed you that much at least. Even if I’m not brave enough to apologize in person, I wanted to give you the opportunity to… speak your mind. I’m not very good with words,” he said awkwardly. At this, Diana’s face darkened. 

She said, “I don’t know about that. You seemed very… effective with your words for me back in the cells.” Bruce winced, and the note crinkled in his suddenly-closed fist. 

“Let me amend that statement… I am not good at using my words in a way that doesn’t hurt those I’m close to,” he said, looking down. When Diana didn’t say anything for a few moments, Bruce looked back up. He saw she had… a bemused expression on her face. 

“Let me see this… note, and I will get back to you on whether your writing is more effective than your speech,” she said teasingly. Bruce nodded, handing her the now-crumpled note, which she uncrumpled amusedly. With a vague sense of horror, Bruce realized she was going to _read it_. Aloud. With him standing there. Bruce wanted to melt into the floor. He wanted to disappear. But, if this was what it took for Diana to forgive him… then so be it. Batman used all his control to keep his feet rooted to the floor, and tried not to wince as Diana deepened her voice and added what she probably thought was a comedic growl and sulkiness to the tone. 

“Diana: The first thing I should say, since this is an apology, is ‘I’m sorry.’ I was rude, cruel, thoughtless, and I let my anger go to my head. There were better ways to handle that situation. One thing my Diana knows is that my head is often hard and sometimes I require (forceful) guidance to see how I may, intentionally or not, come off as abrasive,” Diana paused, shuffling awkwardly in a mimic of him, and Bruce found himself blushing. She looked up, eyes sparkling. _This was so much worse than her flat-out punching me_ , Bruce thought. She continued, “So there’s that. Secondly. I’m sorry for being a burden on you. I know how difficult it must be to see my face, and I appreciate your willingness to help. I didn’t apologize before because I did not want either of us to say anything more damaging in our anger. Zatanna told me that she may have found a solution, so I just wanted to clear the air between us…” Bruce looked up as Diana trailed off. She looked affected, for a moment, but soon buried the look, whatever it was, beneath her mirth. “Moving indeed,” she said. 

Bruce, somehow, turned redder. “I’m sorry,” he said. Diana chortled once, before cutting herself off. 

“I am sorry too, Bruce. I was not in the right either. You were right to be angry,” she said. 

Bruce opened his mouth to protest, because thought he privately agreed that she had been in the wrong, he had still behaved worse. But Diana cut him off with a quelling look that he knew _very well_ from his own Diana. “It takes two to argue,” she said. Bruce sighed, and she smiled. At this sight, Bruce relaxed somewhat and his chest felt lighter, somehow. Things seemed to be resolved between them. Even if Bruce had had to lose all his dignity to make things right, it was worth it. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dick leapt onto the next roof. Finally, he reached Jason Blood’s shop, and was about to grapple down into the alley beside it when he heard voices. Surprisingly, one of them, the high, whiny-toned voice, was one Dick had only heard a few times before: Klarion. He sank down onto the roof and groaned. Great. There was nothing worse than dealing with powerful, magical brats. As he began to speak again, Dick listened: “Oh, Etrigan! Now that I have you under my power, we are going to have so much fun! We can do so much with all the lovely money that that stupid Brainiac has given us! Heh he, and we didn’t even kill Batman like he wanted! Oh, he’ll be so surprised after using his device on Superman, when the man of steel eventually finds a way back here. And you can’t even do anything about it!” 

After that, his voice became muffled as Etrigan— Jason— opened the door to his shop and Klarion strode by him, giggling gleefully. Dick quickly peeked over the ledge of the roof so he could snap a photo with the cowl’s lenses. Then, when Etrigan looked up, nose flaring, he ducked down again, muttering, "Shit, shit, shit!" under his breath. A minute passed and nothing happened, but Dick remained where he was anyway. When Dick heard the door shut, he stood, and quickly retreated back to where he’d left the car. 

“Well,” he muttered to himself, “this complicates things.”


	25. Travel the World and the Seven Seas (Everybody's Looking for Something)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightwing brings the league up to speed. Diana catches a break. Clark decides it's time for a league meeting.
> 
> "I travel the world  
> And the seven seas  
> Everybody's looking for something  
> Some of them want to use you  
> Some of them want to get used by you  
> Some of them want to abuse you  
> Some of them want to be abused"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! Yes, yes, shame on me for slow updates. BUT the end is nigh! I do have an ending planned for this story. IT WILL BE FINISHED!!! In the mean time, I've updated the previous chapters, to make them flow better. No plot changes were made, but hopefully it reads better now, if you want to revisit it while you wait for updates.
> 
> Chapter title and quote from the song _Sweet Dreams_ by Eurythmics.

Diana, Princess of the Amazons of Themiscyra, did not worry easily. If fact, many of her teammates appreciated her for her clear thinking (although, they also knew that _occasionally_ her temper got the best of her). But she was worried about Batman. Bruce. It was true that he’d been absent for longer periods than this before, but not by much. This time, it was almost worse, knowing where he was and that he was safe. 

It was worse, because they knew definitively that if (when) something happened, there was nothing they could do. If Batman had been on Earth, or even within the galaxy, he would have been within reach of the Justice League. But Batman was stuck in another universe, as intangible— yet still frustratingly visible to them— as if he’d been their shadow, cast on a wall. Diana tried to have faith in Bruce’s training, but when multiple unknow villains with _mother boxes_ were gunning for him, she remembered all too clearly, how fragilely mortal Batman was. Like Steve had been. Wonder Woman was not alone in her feelings, she knew. Tensions were running high between league members. In fact, just the other day, Diana had had an argument with Clark. 

Luthor, of course, had been freed either by his devious lawyers, his use of bribery, or even less savory semi-illegal means. Clark had been apoplectic upon hearing the news, and Diana had been worried she’d have to stop the man of steel from kidnapping the evil-minded billionaire and holding him himself until they could find a way to get Batman back. More surprisingly, Metallo had _not_ been caught, and hadn’t resurfaced since. It seemed like the league had searched the planet twice-over for him, and had still come up empty. It was _extremely_ frustrating. Diana scowled, and forced her thoughts back to the present. 

It was a little after two a.m. and she was patrolling Washington D.C. As she flew over Independence Avenue, she saw something she couldn’t _believe_. It was John Corben. He had on a large, tan trench coat and black cowboy hat. He turned onto NW 15th and walked past the Mayor’s office, glancing briefly over his shoulder. Diana frowned, and flew up higher to avoid being spotted. 

A ball of anger was quietly growing inside her chest— she felt her fingers clench into fists, before relaxing them— and thought, _are we really so incompetent that Metallo had been hiding under our noses this whole time? What would Batman say?_ At this, she had her answer. It came to her suddenly, in Bruce’s gruff tone, even: “It’s not where he’s been hiding, but why he’s decided to come out _now_.” Ah. Yes. If Metallo was coming out of hiding now, then that meant something had changed. The corners of her mouth turned up in a predatory smile. Batman would be proud of her. Metallo crossed the street and headed to the metro center. Diana touched down and followed him down the stairs. “Hera, grant me strength,” she said quietly. 

Metallo bought a ticket and looked around the station— to a casual observer, it merely looked like he was unfamiliar with the station and was trying to orient himself. But Diana knew better. Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for— a newspaper stand. He grabbed a paper, and flipped to the sports page. The train arrived, and Metallo boarded. Diana watched which car he entered and then flew onto the roof of the train and lay flat on her stomach. No one else boarded the train. 

A few minutes later, they were in another part of the city. A band of drunken young people boarded, and noisily passed through Metallo’s car. Maybe they sensed something about him, or maybe they just thought he was uncool. They traveled three more stops and picked up a pair of nurses, a musician, and a homeless man. The next stop, a black-haired man in a blue suit, holding a briefcase, boarded the train. Diana maneuvered so she could peer over the side of the train, through the window. 

The man entered the last car, and for a while, Diana lost him. Her heart beat nervously in her chest at that. Her gut told her that he was important, and she didn’t want to miss this opportunity. But soon, he slowly walked into the car where Metallo was and looked him over once, as if judging if he were dangerous or not. He sat on the last seat across the aisle from Metallo. Corben looked up briefly, then flipped the page on his paper. The man started looking at something on his phone. At the next stop, the man got off, and left the briefcase. At this, Diana tensed for a moment, ready to leap from the train if Metallo exited. For another second, she debated going after the other man, but knew that whatever he’d left behind was more important. So with a muttered curse, she let him get away. For now. 

At the next stop, Corben stood casually, turning his paper. He “tripped” over the briefcase before looking around. Then he picked it up. As soon as the train had come to a complete stop, he walked swiftly out the doors and threw the paper into the trash. The recycling bin sat next to it. Diana leapt off the train, and scowled. _Villains_ , she thought in annoyance. Metallo disappeared up the stairs and Diana cursed, “Tartarus!” before hurrying after him. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Superman was just finishing his shift on the Watchtower when his phone buzzed. He unlocked it, and saw it was the email icon. He clicked it open and saw a message from Dick. 

To: Kent.Clark@DailyPlanet.org 

From: D*R1*Wayne@W.E.com 

Subject: We’ve got a problem 

Attached: 2 items 

Hi, S. 

So, I went to talk to Etrigan and, well, we probably should have gone sooner. Because when I went, he wasn’t alone. Klarion was there, and he’s controlling Jason Blood somehow. Not good. Also not good, he mentioned that Brainiac had paid him to _kill_ B originally, and he mentioned a device, and using it on you. I think we got lucky— it sounded like the device he was talking about was the same one the league confiscated from Luthor. But yeah, not good news. I’ve attached a photo from patrol and B’s most recent file on Klarion. Let me know if you turn up anything. 

N. 

Clark sat down in his chair again and heard the armrest creak. After a moment of freaking out, _Bruce had nearly died. He would have died and none of us would have known to stop it from happening_ , he forced himself to calm down. Panicking never helped anybody. He looked down and saw a Superman-sized imprint of his hand on the chair. Oops. He’d have to fix that before they got Bruce back. He reread the email, downloaded the photo, looked at that, then downloaded the file on Klarion. He took a deep breath before opening the communications app on the main monitor screen. Superman needed to call a league meeting. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Metallo walked. He walked, and walked, and walked, until he’d moved at least six blocks away from the metro station. On the corner of 3rd ST NW, he hailed the lone taxi still parked by the curbside. For a moment he hung outside the window, probably arguing over fare. But the cabby flicked on his light when Metallo flashed him some cash. Diana sighed. _Humans and their greed_. The cab peeled away from the curb and she took a running leap into the air. 

Half an hour later, the cab pulled in front of a non-descript, slightly run-down brick apartment complex. Metallo paid the cabby and walked up to the front of the building. As soon as the taxi was nothing more than a pair of taillights at the end of the block, Metallo shed his coat and had and stepped off the steps. He headed around the corner and down an alley. Diana was puzzled as to where he was going until she saw the fire escape. Metallo looked around for a moment before squatting down and leaping. 

He was almost a blur in the air, and Wonder Woman suddenly appreciated how he could be a difficult enemy to battle, even for Superman. Especially for Superman, if he was exposed to kryptonite. Despite his bulk, and the height he had gained from the leap, Metallo landed with barely more than a small creak of metal. The window opened to reveal the head of none other than Mercy Graves. Metallo stood, arms crossed, when she did not move aside. 

“Well?” he snapped, with the oddly tinny, echoey voice that was particular to him. 

“The briefcase?” Mercy asked, smirking slightly. Metallo huffed. 

“I swear, everyone who works with Luthor is the same. You’re all greedy bastards,” he said. But he handed over the brown leather briefcase. Mercy rolled her eyes, before moving out of Diana’s view. Metallo ducked through the window awkwardly. Then it was shut with a small click. 

After a fly-around, Diana didn’t think that there was another window for this apartment; it seemed as if Luthor had picked it because it was studio. Unless she wanted to possibly bring the building down, she would have to go through it, or somehow sneak into the building without being discovered. _Luthor has outsmarted the league once again_ , Wonder Woman noted with extreme displeasure, _and he did not even have to do it in person this time_.


	26. I'll Make My Own Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce catches Clark up to speed. Diana does some more staking-out, and some unexpected demolition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Call 1-800-235-DAMAGE to get reimbursed for _Justice League_ affiliated property damages. Make sure to mention if a league member referred you as it will expediate the process.

Diana’s gods had graced her with many gifts, but sometimes even her abilities were unavailing. While she could make out some of the conversation between Metallo and Mercy, it was more difficult through the thick brick, and she wore a look of extreme concentration. Right now, she wished for Clark’s excellent hearing. This, coupled with her lack of clear sightlines made Diana hover warily. While she did not believe this was a trap, again, Batman’s voice came into her head: “Expect the unexpected. Prepare for _everything_.” Wonder Woman was more inclined to believe that this was a trap than normal simply because of the sheer luck she’d had in finding Metallo. Although, to be sure, blind luck did happen occasionally. Just usually not for the hero. 

As more time went by, Wonder Woman grew frustrated with hovering in the same spot, tensing after every little sound. Invariably, it would be a cat, a pigeon, or even a slight breeze moving a tree branch or piece of trash. Also, the sun was rising, and Diana was growing irritable— she estimated it was nearing 5 a.m., and her second hour on stakeout. _How did Batman do this?_ She yawned once and allowed herself to stretch her limbs for a moment; flying wasn’t exactly tiring, but if she did it long enough, there would be a certain tautness in her limbs. 

Half an hour more passed. The sun was now low in the sky, painting the milky grayness in hues of pink. The clouds were few and far between. In the distance, a bird began chirping. Diana scowled. _Had Metallo somehow snuck by her? Were him and Mercy Graves laughing at her right now from some other hideout?_ No, she could still hear them. But surely, they had to wrap this meeting up soon? Diana could not stand much more of this, and she would act soon, one way or another. But then, she startled as a light flicked on in the apartment on the floor below the one occupied by Mercy Graves and Metallo. And Diana had an idea. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two days after Bruce’s visit to his parents, Clark heard a knock on his door. “One minute!” he called, saving his mission report on the computer. He sped to the door and saw it was Bruce, holding a brown satchel. Clark flung open the door and tried not to sound too cheerful as he beckoned, “Come in!” Bruce saw through his act, smirking slightly as he gracefully stepped by Clark. He looked around the room as if it was the first time he was here— but, last time, Clark thought, _he probably hadn’t been paying much attention to the room_. His eyes seemed to fix on the mission report. 

“How’d that go?” Bruce asked, seemingly at random. 

“Fine,” he said, and paused to see if Bruce would ask more. 

But the other man turned his back to Clark, appearing to inspect his maple bureau, which he’d hauled here from his room back in Kansas. He fiddled with the satchel once, before catching himself. Just as Clark was wondering why Bruce was here, he said, “I talked to Diana.” 

“Oh,” Clark said, surprised, but happy. There was another silence. Bruce seemed to be mulling over his thoughts. 

“Did it—” 

“I’m not here to talk about that,” Bruce said impatiently. Clark suppressed a sigh and thought with a zing of annoyance, _then why did you bring it up?_

“Okay,” Clark prodded. 

“As you know, I met with Zatanna. I wanted to let you know how that went. Also, I got an email from Dick. He’s got an update. And I wanted to return your suit; I washed it,” Bruce said, reaching into the bag. Clark raised an eyebrow but accepted the neatly-pressed and folded items of clothing. He set them on the desk and spun the desk chair around, then sat on the bed. 

“Please,” he said, gesturing to the desk chair. Bruce huffed a little, but complied. 

“So, tell me what’s going on,” Clark requested. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The light flickered on in the apartment below Metallo and Mercy and Diana suddenly had an idea. It wasn’t a great one, but it would have to do. And as Batman always said, “Adaptation is key.” So Diana _adapted_. She floated carefully and silently to the fire escape. She touched down, and leaned forward to softly rap twice on the window. A minute later, a perplexed, and sleepy-looking twenty-something man in sweatpants and a gray t-shirt opened looked out the window. When he saw Wonder Woman, his eyes bugged out and he took a stagger-step back. But he recovered admirably quickly and opened the window. 

“Uh, Wonder Woman… what can I do for you?” he asked slowly. 

“Metallo and Mercy Graves are meeting in the apartment above yours. I need access to the building— would you mind letting me in?” Diana asked matter-of-factly. 

The young man blinked, silently glanced up, as if pondering the fact that right at that moment there were supervillains above him, and turned back to Diana. “uh, sure,” he said, stepping aside. Wonder Woman offered him a quick smile and gracefully ducked through the window. The man stepped back a moment, but then moved to shut the window. He stayed fixed in place, warily watching Diana. 

It was clear from the space that he was poor, and a musician; a guitar was sitting in a open case, prominently displayed in the corner. The small space, while filled with stuff, was not cluttered. The walls were a tasteful off-white, and hung with band posters, a few black and white photos, and one amateurish looking painting of a bowl of fruit. There were two mismatched wooden chairs and a small coffee table. The couch was an ugly green and looked like it had seen better days. The kitchen counter had a pile of drying dishes and Diana could smell the coffee. She turned her attention to the ceiling, which was popcorned, and listened. As she did so, she slowly stalked forward, a lioness on the hunt, until she seemed to decide something. 

The young man was still standing, riveted, to his spot by the window, observing. 

Wonder Woman turned back to him and held out a small white business card. “After I’m gone, call this number and tell them Wonder Woman referred you,” she instructed. The man blinked and after a moment stumbled forward to grab the card. 

“Okay, but why—” 

Diana turned away and burst through the ceiling. 

“Hey!” shouted the young man, coughing as plaster rained down on him. He heard a shout of alarm and saw a pair of feet run past the hole. He glanced down at the card still clenched in his hand and saw: _Justice League Damage Hotline_. Oh. That made more sense. Another series of shouts, followed by a few bangs and metallic shrieks, made Kyle look up again in concern. But this was Wonder Woman, after all, and she seemed to know what she was doing. Kyle sighed, and went to get ready for work. 

Later that day, a tweet by @kylekylekyle appeared and quickly went viral: _I had a WILD day, y’all, lmaoooo. Wonder Woman— THE Wonder Woman— fought some villains in the apartment building above me. Guess who won’t be getting their deposit back (RIP) but it’s all cool, they’re paying for the damage. #wonderwoman #justiceleague #storytime_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Zatanna seems to think she might be able to locate the spell that sent me here. Apparently, she believes it was some kind of demon-summoning spell,” Bruce began. Clark seemed to light up at the ‘good’ news, but Batman held up a hand. “It’s not all that good. If she uses the wrong spell, I could be… sent somewhere. Or killed. And Dick’s news was worse. Apparently, one of our allies, Etrigan, has been mind controlled by Klarion, a powerful magic user. So it makes sense that is was a demon-summoning spell, but I suspect that Zatanna will have little progress in ‘hacking’ the spell, given how powerful he is,” Bruce finished sullenly. Clark visibly wilted. Bruce tried to suppress his annoyance at the boy scout. _He was the one stuck here, after all, not Superman_. 

When Clark didn’t answer for a few minutes, Bruce looked up from his gloved hands. Clark had one hand on his chin and was staring thoughtfully at the wall past Bruce. “Klarion? As in Klarion _the Witch Boy_?” he asked suddenly, looking up at Bruce. 

“Yes,” Bruce growled. Clark grinned. Bruce raised an eyebrow, and leveled an impatient stare at his friend— his friend’s alternate. _It was never good when Clark tried to be circuitous. He inevitably ended up testing Batman’s patience. And that was something not even Superman should do too often_. 

“Out with it,” Bruce finally snapped. 

Clark gave him a reproachful look but got to the point: “I may be able to help you out.”


	27. 4 W's and an H: In Other Words, Interrogation Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Slow) progress is being made in the quest to get Bruce home! It finally seems like there's light at the end of the tunnel, but will it be too little, too late? Will the tiny snags in the journey finally make Bruce lose it? Diana and Clark start an interrogation. Bruce continues his search for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, readers! Or, if you're not religious/believe in another religion, Merry [insert day/holiday/event of your choosing]! Have a (late, yes, I know it's late) update. Enjoy!

Metallo glared up at Wonder Woman and would have looked quite frightening to a normal person while doing so; in their fight, Diana had torn off half of his face accidentally. Mercy sat silently, glaring at Diana from within the lasso. That was fine with Wonder Woman, who right now was only concerned with transporting the villains to a place where she could interrogate them. _Hera, if anything else happened right now_ , Diana thought impatiently as she waited for J’ohn to pick up his comm. 

“Yes?” asked the Martian Manhunter. 

“Hi, J’ohn. Wonder Woman here. I’ve captured Metallo and Mercy Graves and am requesting transport for three. Oh, please have a holding cell ready upon our return. Thank you,” Diana said. 

There was a beat of silence, in which Diana could imagine J’ohn’s small, questioning frown. But he still said, “Very well.” Moments later, the apartment was empty. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Well,” Clark said patiently, “Klarion— our version of him, anyway— is something of an ally these days. Actually, he doesn’t prefer to go by ‘witch boy’ these days, come to think about it…” _Christ, but Clark liked giving him the wrong kind of information. It was a wonder all the league meetings weren’t this bad. And people complained about Batman’s briefings_, Bruce thought. He took one calming breath and relaxed his clenched jaw. 

But his voice still sounded strained when he interrupted, “Clark. I don’t need backstory, I just need to know. What. You. Wanted. To tell me.” Clark gave him another insulted look, but hesitated when he saw the tension in his friend’s features. Maybe he was worried Bruce would finally snap. Bruce didn’t dwell on the thought too long. 

“He switched sides a few years ago. Now he’s a junior League member. Technically. If his alternate’s causing your problems, well then, I figure he’s the best one to help,” Clark said simply. 

“Thank you,” Bruce said, nodding. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Diana and her captive criminals materialized to a mostly empty room. J’ohn was hovering by the controls, and Superman was waiting a bit farther back, with a lead chest plate ready. Hal was standing slightly in front of him and took the lead chest plate when he saw Wonder Woman and company fully materialize. “Hey, Diana. Let me just fix this on real quick…” he said, placing the chest plate in place over a glowering Metallo. 

“Thank you,” Diana said, somewhat amused, “my hands were quite full.” 

“I can take Corbin,” Clark said, striding forward. Diana made sure he had hands on the villain before releasing the lasso’s hold. Mercy Graves needed some assistance in standing but remained silent, glowering at Wonder Woman, and ignoring Superman. Hal and J’ohn seemed to have come to an agreement because the Martian followed the larger group from the room and Hal assumed his position at the Watchtower’s central watch station. 

The walk to the holding cells wasn’t a very long one, but it was tense. Clark, Diana could sense, was itching for information almost as badly as she was, if not more so. He was not as patient as she, nor as patient as Batman was (which was, usually, more patient than either of them). It was also tense because the necessary silence and because Diana was tense, waiting for any last-minute escape plans to play out. She knew how precious this lead was— and perhaps it was a gift from the gods, even, with how fortuitous it was— so she did not wish to squander it. Finally, though, they reached the cells. Metallo and Mercy were placed in separate rooms while J’ohn, Superman, and Wonder Woman converged and discussed what to do next. While they did so, Diana gave them a brief run-down of what had happened. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“When can I meet him?” Bruce asked. 

“Uh. Well, the thing is… we don’t know where he is at the moment,” Clark said sheepishly. 

Bruce sat there for a moment, completely, eerily, still. Then he closed his eyes and pursed his lips to prevent any frustrated noises from escaping because _of fucking course the only lead in this situation had to be a dangerous-bad-guy-gone-good who was now missing. Of course_. But it appeared that Clark was either oblivious to Bruce’s internal frustrations or he was ignoring them because he continued, “we actually think he might have retired. But I’m sure we’ll find him again, Bruce.” 

Bruce blinked open his eyes and, fists clenched in his cape, grit out, “Yes. I’m sure we will. But… it’s just—” 

“Frustrating?” Clark supplied, offering him an understanding smile. The kind that made Bruce’s stomach churn with a sharp biting anger and amazement, that Clark somehow, sometimes understood. He barked out a sharp, humorless laugh. 

“Yes. Exactly. _Frustrating_ ,” Bruce replied. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Tell me Lex Luthor’s plan,” Diana commanded. For the fourth time. From the corner of her eye, she could see Kal pacing. If he continued, she might have to remove him from the interrogation room. Yes, they all wanted Bruce back, but _pacing_ wasn’t helping anyone. Diana grimaced and returned her focus to Mercy Graves. Mercy Graves, who was looking quite annoyed, but nowhere near as intimidated as Diana would have liked her to be. _Hades_. 

“I told you lot already. I. Don’t. Know. He doesn’t tell me everything! I just do what he _does_ tell me, and if you idiots would listen—” 

Suddenly, with an ear-splitting shriek, Superman was leaning over the desk, one hand clenched around the table. _Yes_ , Wonder Woman thought, _they would certainly need to make sure the damaged equipment was replaced before Batman was home_. “My best fr— my colleague is missing, Ms. Graves, and we know Luthor is responsible!” Superman barked, “so why don’t you tell us what you _do_ know! I may not know where Luthor is right now, but I do know that it won’t take too long to find him. And it won’t be good for you when I do. What is the likelihood that your two-timing, slime ball, conniving boss will protect you when his ass is on the line, Ms. Graves?” Mercy paled and even Diana leaned forward a bit. 

There was a beat of silence in the room, as Mercy seemed to be weighing her options. Finally she broke, and looking between Clark and Diana, said, “Alright. Fine. I’ll tell you what I know.” 

It turned out that Mercy did know a lot more than what she’d said she did. To no one’s surprise, thanks to Nightwing, they heard that Klarion was indeed involved; even a central figure in the yet-unknown plot. Additionally, they learned more about Luthor’s desires. Also, they confirmed their suspicions that there was another party involved: Brainiac. Diana saw Clark grimace slightly at these words, and she felt a pang of sympathy run through her. Here were two of Superman’s greatest enemies and thought they’d not managed to meddle with him, they had stolen the man’s best friend. And yes, Diana would argue, even Bruce would freely say that the man of steel was a close friend. If he wouldn’t, Wonder Woman always had her lasso to prove otherwise. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After he left Clark’s room, Bruce retreated to the labs for research. As Tim might have said, it was ‘detective time.’ Batman was on the hunt for one Klarion, former witch boy. God help anyone who stood in his way. 

Bruce tried not to be too broody, but really, it was a tedious task given the circumstances. He was so frustrated he could almost cry. By all measures, Batman and Bruce Wayne had been stuck in this alternate world for far, far too long, and Bruce grew more and more concerned about the lasting consequences of said entrapment the longer it went on. On top of all that, he _missed_ his family. True, he may not admit it aloud, or say it to them, but there was no escaping it and he felt comfortable confessing such sentimentality safe in the sanctuary of his own mind. So, Bruce imagined, Alfred would forgive him, several hours later, for being even more frustrated. 

“Goddamnit!” he exclaimed, rubbing his tired eyes with one gloved hand. Bruce sat back with a growly sigh and closed his eyes, trying to think. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing on Klarion past the first few years of his new ‘herodom.’ It was as if he’d been erased— something not _entirely_ irrational to think given the fact that the boy was a powerful magic user. Making the situation even worse, Bruce found that he couldn’t even concentrate on the problem right now because of his stomach’s incessant rumbling. It had been several hours since he’d eaten or drunk anything. But as Bruce was contemplating just suiting up and going out there himself to drag Klarion back, there was a sharp knock on the lab’s door. Bruce growled under his breath one more time before standing sharply to see who it was who was disturbing him.


	28. You'll Find A Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick has had enough of waiting and makes a move. Dick (the alternate-version) knows that Bruce will wear himself out from frustration and goes to intervene. Though the pieces of this nefarious puzzle are falling into place, Bruce, Dick, Clark, Diana, and the rest of the Batfamily, don't think it is happening fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Go Ahead, you know you want it  
> You'll have no other way  
> You just want to take us down  
> Go ahead,  
> I'll be the one hit  
> If I can take you, boy, it just might throw this town"  
> — _You'll Find a Way_ , Santigold
> 
> Chapter title from the same song.

Dick Grayson put the Batsuit on with a calculating scowl. Much as he would have preferred to do this as Nightwing, the task was much too important to take any risks. And as much as he loathed to admit that Bruce was right, he _did_ have better body armor, hands down. Dick would have been a fool to argue otherwise. Dick’s fighting style had always been a glittery, distracting, disarming blend of acrobatics, speed, and precision, and his suit reflected that. Bruce’s style was blunter— not less refined, no, because one did not become something as fearsome as the Bat by being unrefined. But he was… more straightforward, more about efficiency. If it was the quickest way to get what he wanted, well, god help whoever stood in his way, even if that was his own family. Dick scowled. He tried to ignore the prickle of unease that skittered down his spine. _Alright, Dick. Take it easy_ , he reminded himself, taking a deep breath as he attached the cape to the suit. He spared his reflection a brief glance in the mirror and resolutely fixed a Bruce-like scowl onto his face. He did not shudder. _Time to take out Etrigan_. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dick Grayson knocked on the lab’s door. He’d overheard Superman and Wonder Woman (okay, _eavesdropped_ ) and had learned that Bruce was in the lab. Now, he didn’t know which lab that was, as he was a new enough member to the league to not get the benefit of personal spaces— emphasis on the pluralization of spaces— but he did know where the labs were. Also, as an ex-protégée of the Bat, Dick would have been _ashamed_ if he couldn’t do a little sleuthing and figure out which one was— _had been_ — Batman’s. So it was only a little while later that he figured out which it was and knocked on the door. 

Sure enough, Bruce was bare-faced, but otherwise still suited up. He looked tired and sent a bit of a look at Dick. The familiarity of the situation sent a bit of a twinge through Dick that he pushed away by slapping a brilliant grin on his face. “Hello, B. Have you eaten anything recently?” he asked. 

Bruce’s scowl deepened for a moment before he let out a rumbling sigh, and admitted, “No.” But he didn’t tell Dick to go away, so he took that as an invitation and stepped forward. Wordlessly, Bruce led the way into the lab and Dick whistled from his place just inside the doorway. 

“Pretty impressive. Do you have this back at your league?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Bruce said distractedly. He went to the computer, typed something, and then shut off the machine. He turned to Dick, one brow raised. “I figure since you’re here I’m not going to be getting anymore work done for a while,” he said. Dick grinned sheepishly. He wondered, _is this what the other-me does too?_ It was a strange thought, to be similar to Bruce’s son. It wasn’t unpleasant, though. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Tihs!” 

“How’s it going?” asked Clark. 

Zatanna jumped. The half-deconstructed device sparkled as pieces were gently lowered back down to the table. Clark shuddered a bit. He _hated_ magic. The magician turned around, leveling a stern look at Clark. 

“Superman, please give me a little warning next time, alright?” She sighed, absently fiddling with her top hat. Zatanna turned to glare at Luthor’s device. “Not well… I’ve been able to rule out a couple things… but without more information, it’ll be near impossible for me to figure out what Klarion did,” she said frustratedly. Clark could hear her gnash her teeth, and was reminded that Zatanna was Bruce’s friend too. Hell, Bruce never complained if she was in Gotham (not that he could really keep her out, anyway; Batman hated magic almost as much as Superman). 

“Well… let us know if you do come up with anything. Or, I guess, if Zatanna— the other you— tells you anything,” Clark said awkwardly. 

“Right,” said the magician, turning back to the device. Clark made a quick retreat from the room. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had taken a few nights, but Dick had finally figured out what Jason Blood’s and Klarion’s schedules were. While it was risky enough to go up against one (and, a Bruce-like voice inside Dick’s head added, _stupid_ ) going up against the Witch Boy and the Demon alone was almost suicidal. So, learning when (if) Klarion left Etrigan alone had been key. Dick needed to capture him alone. Then they’d figure out what to do about Klarion. Also, Dick noted, he’d need to figure out what to tell _Alfred_. This exactly contradicted Alfred’s orders to, “Not patrol alone, and to not do anything stupid.” Jason came into view. 

“Sorry, Al,” Dick muttered, before diving off the roof. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dick and Bruce walked in silence through the halls, waited in the cafeteria silently, sat at a secluded corner table silently. “So,” Dick said awkwardly, “care to tell me what’s going on? You seem… frustrated.” 

Bruce harrumphed, and finished chewing. “You’re not wrong,” he said, tone acidic “I’m looking for a former villain, a magic user, who is an alternate of one of the JL’s very dangerous enemies. And he’s disappeared. As I said, he’s a magic user… so finding him is like trying to—” 

“Pull a rabbit from a hat?” Dick suggested. 

Bruce snorted. “… I suppose,” he muttered. 

Dick sighed. “Well, you know you have me, if you want any help,” he offered. Bruce looked up and Dick could practically see the raised eyebrow, even if, in reality, Bruce’s face was obscured by the cowl. 

“Thanks,” he grunted. Dick smiled. They turned back to their food. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Superman strode through the monitor room’s doors. The leaguer on-duty, Vigilante, turned around and straightened up. _Guess I need to socialize more with the rest of the league_ , Clark noted with a twinge. “Howdy, Superman. What brings you here?” the cowboy asked. 

“I’m here to take over your shift,” Clark said. The other man raised an eyebrow. 

“But I still got half an hour to go,” he questioned. Clark shrugged. 

“I didn’t have anything going on,” he admitted. _At least nothing going on I can do anything about_. 

Vigilante shrugged again, turning around to log out of the computer. “Alrighty then. I ain’t complaining. Thanks, Supes,” he said, giving a wave. 

“See you later,” Clark said distractedly. The door shut. He was finally alone. 

Superman settled into the chair with a sigh. Well, he couldn’t help Bruce, but he could at least do this. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nightwing (in the Batsuit) came in fast and hard. Etrigan didn’t turn around until the last second, and that was too late. He got a boot to the face. Dick winced internally and apologized to him. But desperate times… Etrigan roared and spewed fire at him. Dick quickly moved out of the way, ducking under the fire-retardant cape a bit. Yes, it had been a wise decision to borrow a suit, after all. Etrigan opened his mouth again, perhaps to speak, perhaps to spew more fire, but Dick was ready. He flung out a couple of smoke pellets, and Etrigan, who’d been taking a deep breath in, started choking. It was enough of a distraction for Dick to dart forward and land a couple of hits to his ears, stomach, knees. Suddenly, Etrigan roared and swung his arm out, catching Dick in the gut. 

“Oooff!” he exclaimed as he was flung backwards. With another roar— and Dick was _really_ sick of villains who roared like that— the demon came stomping towards him. Dick stumbled to his feet, readying a teargas pellet. He waited. Etrigan barreled toward him and Dick rolled out of the way, releasing the pellet as he did so. 

Etrigan growled again, and through his coughing, warned, “Escape me you will not, that you even try leaves my jaw agape, one who wears the bat-cape.” Dick groaned internally. 

“Oh, _shut up_!” he said. Etrigan lunged at him again and Dick kneed him so he hit the wall with a small crack. The demon was a little slow to get up, but that didn’t mean he was done fighting yet. Dick tensed, waiting. A wall of fire washed over him. _Shitshitshitshit_ , Dick thought, ducking behind the cape again. One of his eyebrows was singed off, he was sure, even through the cowl. And he winced, gritting his teeth, because that was Etrigan, stomping on him. But in Bruce's suit, it was difficult to maneuver acrobatically. Yeah, he was definitely upgrading the Nightwing suit after this. 

Dick released the gauntlets and swung out. He felt one connect and heard Etrigan howl. Dazedly, Dick rolled to a stand and shot the grappled out. It impaled itself in the opposite wall with a _thump_ and Dick quickly wrapped the other end around Etrigan while he was still distracted. He locked it and, as Etrigan struggled, Dick darted forward and hit him in the jaw. Etrigan dropped, out cold. Dick spared a glance at the other man to make sure he was breathing, and winced slightly. They’d _both_ feel the aftermath of this fight in the morning. 

Dick held his hand up to the cowl’s ear. He’d borrowed Bruce’s JL communicator too. “Two to transport up,” he said. 

“Bio-signature unrecognized,” the computerized voice said. 

“Code Beta-01-D,” Dick said. There was a moment of silence. 

“Access granted,” said the computer. The forms of Dick Grayson and Jason Blood vanished from the Gotham alley. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the teleporter beeped, Clark raised an eyebrow. _The computer didn’t register any leaguers requesting access_ , he thought with a twinge of apprehension. Superman turned slowly around, shoulders tensed, to see who it was. His movements were brought to a stagger-stop when the voice of one Dick Grayson called cheerfully, “Hey, Supes!” 

The young man was wearing the Batsuit ( _and wouldn’t Bruce be happy about that when he got back_, Clark thought), with a slightly smoking cape, scratched chest plate, and a slightly reddened, sooty face. Clark activated his x-ray vision. He also, upon closer inspection, appeared to have seared one of his eyebrows off. Then Clark’s attention turned to the _other_ person with Dick and his jaw dropped. 

“What did you _do_!” he exclaimed. 

Dick grinned again, apparently ignorant of Superman’s sudden mood shift. “We needed help and well… I got it,” he said. Clark sighed, and shook his head. 

“Wait right here and _do not_ move,” he ordered, striding over to the computer. _This whole situation was headache inducing. How did Dick even get onto the Watchtower? He wasn’t a member_. And Clark didn’t even want to know how he’d managed to apparently capture Etrigan alone. At least he hadn’t appeared to hurt himself too badly, as Bruce surely would have chewed Clark out for _that_ , like it was Clark’s fault his son was as reckless as the father. Ugh. 

“Wonder Woman, J’ohn, Flash, GL, come in,” he said. 

“Yeah?” Green Lantern said, “What’s up, Supes?” 

“Yes, Superman?” J’ohn said. 

“Hey, Supes,” Flash said. 

“What seems to be the problem, Superman?” Diana asked. 

“If you’re not busy, I need you all to come up to the tower… we have a situation,” he said. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had taken a significant amount of digging, but Bruce finally thought he’d found a lead. He’d activated a notification on any suspicious magical activity, and he’d found something in a corner of Iowa, of all places. It was an advertisement from the state fair, two years ago: ‘Come see the Clairvoyant Warlock-Man and learn your fortune!’ Another quick search told Bruce that the state fair wasn’t for another two months. 

But, any acts that wanted to appear had to register a least a year in advanced. If Klarion was now calling himself the ‘Clairvoyant Warlock-Man,’ and appearing at state fairs, well then… Bruce would find him. It was time to go investigate. Bruce logged off and locked the lab.


	29. I'll Cast A Spell On You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finally catches a break (while trying to find a witch... well, a witch boy.) Dick helps the league out, not that they're very appreciative. Zatanna has some work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I put a spell on you  
> I just can't stand the way you're always tryin' to put me down  
> I put a spell on you, oh yeah  
> I put a spell on you, I put a spell on you"  
> - _I Put a Spell on You_ , Screamin' Jay Hawkins
> 
> Chapter title adapted from the same song.

Batman appeared on the roof of the public library in Fort Dodge, Iowa. It was a squat, square one-story brick building with a flat roof. He scowled at the open, starry night sky. Though the night was dark, and there weren’t many street lights around, a break-in would be all too noticeable in a small town like this. He’d have to be careful. Batman quickly and silently strode to the edge of the roof and seemed to consider his options. Most of the buildings around were of the same, squat industrial nature as the library, which made grappling somewhat inconvenient because he wasn’t high enough to swing from building to building. Thankfully, though, the space appeared deserted, so he was able to cling to the shadows and quickly cross from street to street. 

The ad he’d seen had originated from the Mayor’s Office, so that was what Bruce was looking for, in hopes they hadn’t changed their system in the past few years. When in doubt of where ‘downtown’ was, Bruce always followed the truism: go where the tall buildings are. So he soon found himself perched on the roof of what appeared to be a hotel. He removed his binoculars from his belt and scanned the area. City Hall was just a block down from his location, and better yet, the buildings were tall enough for him to use his grappling hook. Excellent. 

Batman swung from the roof of the hotel to the top of City Hall and then landed in the alley behind it. He scanned the frequencies emanating from the building and found that there was only one alarm system in place. He easily shut it off and put the security cameras (each of which was placed in a painfully-obvious hiding place) on a loop. Then it was only a matter of finding the right department. 

Half an hour later, Bruce had found what he was looking for— a smallish office with gray filing cabinets, filled with paperwork that needed some official’s signature and approval. In a series of manila folders, Bruce found a list of acts seeking approval to appear at the state fair. The ‘Clairvoyant Warlock-Man’ was on the second page, after ‘The Yodeling Twins’ and ‘The Singing Alligator.’ Bruce snorted to himself. He scanned the page with his cowl’s lenses and committed the address to memory: 5011 N 9th St. He’d come back tomorrow when he was better prepared to deal with a magic user. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first half hour of the meeting was chaos. The league had immediately begun grilling Nightwing on how, exactly, he’d been able to teleport aboard the highly-secured league headquarters. Which were in _space_. Did Bruce give him access? Who else had access? How had he managed to get access if Batman hadn’t given it to him? Had anyone else who wasn’t a league-member been aboard the Watchtower? How long had he had access to the Watchtower? These were all questions that were more-or-less shouted at Nightwing. Finally, the young hero had had enough. 

He stood, holding up a hand for silence. “Guys, guys! Hold on a sec, I’ll explain. No, Batman didn’t give me the access codes… but he didn’t really secure them either—” he began. 

“You mean to tell me you _hacked_ the Watchtower,” Superman said, flabbergasted. Dick gave him a look. 

“Cla— Superman, Batman’s my _dad_. Of course I hacked the Watchtower! He taught me computer surveillance when I was, like, twelve,” Nightwing explained. Clark looked like he was about to have an aneurism. He sighed, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. _So this is what Bruce is talking about when he says Superman “gets huffy,”_ Dick noted, amused. 

“So… Bats _didn’t_ give you codes to the Watchtower?” Flash asked, sounding confused. 

“No,” Nightwing said patiently, “but he didn’t guard it particularly well, either.” 

Diana frowned. “This means… he was not opposed to you discovering the code?” she asked. 

Dick smiled. “Exactly. But he didn’t _give me_ the code, so you can’t get mad at him for not following league policy or whatever bullshit— sorry, Supes— you were going to use. This is on me. If Bruce— if my dad gets hurt up here, I want to be able to see him for myself, alright?” Nightwing said, more seriously. There was a momentary pall over the room, then Clark sighed. 

“Alright… for now. But we _will_ be talking to Batman about securing his codes better, understand?” Clark said, fixing a look at Nightwing. Dick nodded. Then Clark turned toward the larger group and said, “Now, how about we move onto the bigger problem. We need to figure out how to remove Klarion’s influence from Etrigan. Any ideas?” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After talking to Zatanna, and doing some research of his own, Bruce felt more prepared to take on a potentially uncooperative Klarion. Most of his talk with Zatanna had consisted of her telling him what things may offer him protection from magic (“But, B, seriously, _don’t_ try to find Klarion. At least, don’t do it alone. You’re not fit to fight magic”) or as a way to potentially track down the Witch Boy once Bruce had a better lead (“It has to be physical evidence, Bruce, like a piece of hair, or something… and that kind of magic is finicky at best”). So now Bruce was armed with sage, silver powder, and river stones. He felt… moderately ridiculous, but, his personal motto was always be prepared. And if that meant he had to walk around like an aged hippie going to a _Grateful Dead_ reunion tour, then so be it. 

Bruce teleported back to Fort Dodge, a block away from his intended destination. Ironically, the address he was looking for was in the shadow of a church. As he adjusted his grip on the steeple, Bruce snorted and pondered, _I wonder if the pastor would ask his parishioners to love their neighbors if they knew Klarion was one of them_. But he was getting distracted. It was 11:40, and the area was dead-silent, except for the faint blare of a siren in the distance. Bruce tuned his cowl’s lenses and focused on 5011. The lights were out, but that didn’t particularly mean anything to the Batman. However, he didn’t want to be caught unawares; despite Zatanna’s misgivings, Bruce knew he wasn’t very adept at fighting magic. 

But, 45 minutes into his stakeout, Bruce was sick of perching like a bat in a belfry, staring at nothing. He was beginning to suspect that he’d been duped, somehow, when a porch light suddenly flickered on. He straightened up, preparing to make a move. But soon he saw that it was just a cat that had set it off. He let out a huff of air. 

“Why are you trying to find me?” came a high-pitched, cross-sounding voice. Bruce’s hackles raised and it took all of his resolve not to leap around. He forced himself to spin calmly and slowly, as if he’d been expecting the sudden appearance of… Klarion. “Well?” he asked, arms crossed, and foot tapping errantly, “I’m waiting. You didn’t really think I wouldn’t have alerts up for when people are looking for me, did you… Batman.” 

Bruce swallowed, and tried to come up with something other than _I hate magic_. “No. It’s a wise policy. I have alerts set up too,” he said. 

Klarion’s eyebrow raised dangerously and Bruce felt a prickling unease run up his spine that he was pretty sure didn’t originate inside him. He set his lips and tried to not let it bother him. After another moment of silence, the Witch Boy cocked his head sideways and asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” 

Bruce sighed, and said tiredly, “It’s a long story.” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Um,” Dick said, “I have a suggestion. Zatanna. I mean, she’s already involved, right?” 

Superman shot him a quelling look but sighed. “Yes. She is. That’s not a bad idea, thank you, Nightwing,” he said. 

“I will call her,” J’ohn said, rising fluidly. After he left, there was a lull in the room. 

“Soo,” Flash said, walking up to Nightwing, “you caught Etrigan all by yourself? Pretty impressive.” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zatanna arrived fifteen minutes later, looking a little frazzled. “Sorry everyone,” she said, “there was a ghoul outbreak I was dealing with. Long story. Anyway, would someone care to tell me what’s going on?” 

After the magician was updated, the group of leaguers, plus Nightwing, made their way to the holding cells, where Diana was already waiting. After their interrogation of Nightwing had finished, she had excused herself to make sure Etrigan couldn’t escape. As the group approached the room, they heard several roars and responding shouts, coming from Wonder Woman. Superman winced, already picturing the chewing-out she’d give them for making her wait so long. 

Sure enough, though Etrigan was restrained, Diana did look a bit more crispy than usual. “Your hair’s on fire,” Zatanna acknowledged calmly, “erif, og tuo.” Diana’s hair ceased burning. 

She sighed, and adjusted it with one hand. “Thank you, Zatanna.” The other woman nodded, then squared her shoulders and turned towards Etrigan, who roared again. 

“What’s the problem with him?” she asked. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Batman followed Klarion off the roof of the church, feeling more than a prickle of unease in his stomach when Klarion simply _floated_ down. They met on the sidewalk and were joined by Klarion’s cat familiar, Teekl. “Follow me,” the boy gestured, and suddenly, Bruce’s limbs locked to his side. He stood alert, like a toy soldier, as an unknown force dragged him along. _Fucking magic_ , Bruce thought, alarmed, but _not_ panicked. 

They approached the door of 5011, and Bruce’s sense of foreboding increased. The cat stretched, and jumped higher than any cat should be able to, landing lightly on Bruce’s shoulders. Klarion glanced back. “Well, if Teekl likes you, then I guess it’s okay to let you up,” he said thoughtfully. He made another wild gesture with his hand, and Bruce thought absently, _how can his fingers bend like that?_ He tried his best to ignore the feeling of numbing cold that seemed to flow through his limbs as they were released. Carefully, Bruce palmed a handful of powdered silver, just in case. 

“So, tell me, ‘Batman,’” Klarion said, pacing, “what has caused you to seek me out?” 

Bruce thought for a moment, about the best way to explain it. “Your alternate was working with Lex Luthor and other associates and sent me here to get me out of the way. I want to get back to my universe. I’ve been informed that you can probably help me,” he said lowly, tensely. _Magic always had a price, even he knew that. It was written in every children’s tale— always be careful what you wish for. Zatanna had told him as much, too._

“And why is that?” asked Klarion, reaching down to pick up Teekl. Bruce grit his teeth and tried to keep from grabbing the kid. 

“Because it’s _your_ fault I’m stuck here. And who knows what’ll happen to the timelines if I stay stuck here,” he said tersely. 

Klarion gave him another sharp look, before lazily setting the cat down again. “Right. What’s in it for me, if I do help you?” he asked sing-songily. Bruce grit his teeth. 

“I _don’t_ tell the league where you are, for starters. You’ve worked very hard to start over, Klarion, so I know that your privacy means something to you. Additionally, by sending me back, I stay out of your hair. It’s mutually beneficial,” Bruce growled. Klarion’s mouth pursed and he gave Bruce an even sharper look. But, heart beating apprehensively, Bruce leveled a stare back. And Batman’s stare was enough to cow even Superman. 

“Very well,” he sighed, turning away from the Bat, “I assume the Justice League Headquarters are still in Metropolis… so I shall prepare myself and appear there within three days. Farewell, Batman.” The young sorcerer raised a dismissive hand and Bruce spun on his heels, a shudder caught in his spine. Teekl followed his progress across the room with cold eyes. Bruce couldn’t help but feel like a mouse. He was only too happy to leave the premises. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“He’s been controlled by Klarion,” Superman explained, "and we think the Witch Boy used Etrigan’s magic to somehow send Bruce to the other universe.” 

Zatanna raised an eyebrow. “And you want me to unmagic him?” 

“That was our hope,” J’ohn said quietly. 

Zatanna looked at Etrigan and muttered, ignoring the other league members, “Lleps laever.” After a moment, where she seemed to be studying something no one else could see, she said, “this might take a while. I’ll let you know when I’ve got something.” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce appeared back in Metropolis, feeling the odd desire to smile. _Not yet_ , he chastised. There was still too much to do, so much that could go wrong, or that was unknown. _It could still be months or years before I get home_ , he reminded himself, a pang of almost-nausea going through his stomach. Bruce scowled. 

As he turned the corner, he saw Zatanna. He paused, hesitated, and it was enough time for her to turn around. She smiled as she saw Bruce. “Well, thank god, you’re alive! I was worried Klarion had turned you into a goldfish or something.” 

“No,” Bruce said, walking, “he didn’t. Obviously.” 

“Well how did it go?” she asked, keeping pace with him. 

“Fine. Better than expected. He agreed to help me,” Bruce said. He could see Zatanna smile out of the corner of his eye. 

“That’s excellent,” she said, suddenly veering away down the other hall. “I’m going to catch some sleep, then I’ll work on this tomorrow. You should catch some z’s too, Batman,” she called over her shoulder. Bruce scowled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, Fort Dodge, Iowa is a real place! Check it out on Google Maps: https://www.google.com/maps/place/Fort+Dodge,+IA+50501/@42.5096816,-94.1899115,376m/data=!3m1!1e3!4m5!3m4!1s0x87ed8835c00b036f:0x7b4a9a8e03adc42d!8m2!3d42.4974694!4d-94.1680158


	30. Better to Serve in Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... than to rule in Hell. The actual quote is, _better to rule in Hell than to serve in Heaven_. But for Bruce, that's just not true. Even if one is the ruler of Hell, well... it's still hell, isn't it?
> 
> ___________________________________________
> 
> "When the daylight weighs a tonne  
> And all my friends are gone,  
> There's rust around the things I love,  
> When it's fraying at the seams of reality and dreams  
> All those dreams are quiet and dull [...]  
> I'm looking for a quick exit  
> Like a prisioner on the run"  
> — _Embrace_ , White Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say it with me now: TWO. MORE. CHAPTERS! I will somehow wrap up this glorious, unruly beast of a fic in two chapters. I know where I want to end it and I have it all planned out. I just have to get it out on the page. But soon, dear readers, soon I will have it written out and posted! Promise. 
> 
> Chapter title is an intentional mis-quote of John Milton's _Paradise Lost_. Actual quote in the summary.

Bruce stood from his crouch and stretched. He had been here since sunset; actually, a little before that. Bruce tapped the cowl’s screen to activate the electronic display— it was 11:30 p.m., so he’d been there for three hours. A yawn interrupted his train of thought and he shook his head. It had been a long two days since Klarion had made his promise. That morning, Zatanna— he couldn’t remember which one, and _that_ was concerning— had alerted him to some-sort-of breakthrough she’d had. He yawned again. The last two nights he’d stayed out until the very first glimmer of the morning’s sunrise bled across the skyline of Metropolis. And nothing. _But he’d had to, he’d had to, because what if Klarion showed up and Bruce missed him?_ Bruce forced his attention back to the stationary, unchanging sight of the Justice League Headquarters. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce adjusted his position again, grumbling. There were very few bat-friendly outposts on the buildings here, as he’d observed in his Metropolis— and that was a ridiculous thought, to call any version of Metropolis _his_. Clark, somewhere, was feeling a shiver of wrongness run down his spine. Bruce had settled on this office building for the sheer convenience of its small ledge. He suspected that the space usually contained flowerbeds of some kind, he wasn’t sure. But whatever purpose the ledge served, it was here. And although it was far from comfortable, here he’d remain. Bruce blinked, and tried to wrestle his focus out of his head. 

Yet as time continued to screech by, Bruce found the task of staying out of his own head a difficult one. _Of course, Klarion hadn’t said when he’d be here, merely to expect him within three days’ time_ , he thought, annoyed. Bruce huffed as he changed his position to lean back against the wall. Below the small ledge a car went by, and he found himself tracking its progress eagerly. But all too quickly, the vehicle zoomed past, vanishing from his field of sight. Bruce pressed his lips together in a thin line and wondered, _Where was Klarion? He was running out of time. He should have tried harder to nail down the details. He should have brought Zatanna with him and negotiated a deal. He should have offered something. Why hadn’t he offered the Witch Boy anything?_

One thing Bruce— very forcefully— didn’t think was, _what if he doesn’t show up?_ Bruce recognized that if he went there, he’d be entering the realm of pernicious, festering questions like: _Would it be better, if he killed the Joker?_ and _What if he had been a few seconds faster, in Ethiopia?_ or _Did Damian hate him sometimes, deep down, for not saving him sooner from his mother?_ Such thoughts guided Bruce to the abyss and encouraged him to jump; all they offered was self-destruction. Bruce knew that, in actuality, it was a very good thing that he _hadn’t_ offered anything to Klarion, because the Witch Boy very-well could have asked for anything. And Bruce _might_ have given it to him. Making any deal when one was desperate spelled disaster, more so for magical ones; magical forces could smell desperation. And he _was_ desperate. So he attempted, yet again, to stem his internal speech. 

But Bruce found he still had to force his muscles to relax several times because he’d unconsciously tensed up. Each passing moment seemed to create more tension within Batman. It was a combination of his mental state— anxious, angry, afraid— and the fact that he didn’t have all the information. Especially since the stakes were so high, this pressed heavily on him. He could _see_ how his family, and the league, would react once he was home. He could visualize what it would be like to be transported there, to have (presumably) Clark, Diana, Alfred, Dick, Tim, and Jason waiting for him. To be this close to having a solution, and to have it dance through his hands like mist would be… he had no words for the feeling. But when he pictured this happening, sparks of pure, reactionary denial ran through him. So this _had_ to go perfectly. And to have _any_ element be unpredictable, as out of control as magic often made things, created a heart-palpitating, gut-twisting, buzzing, and unshakeable, anxiety that ate away at all his patience. So to say Bruce was on-edge was equivalent to calling the Grand Canyon a ditch. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Etrigan roared again. Zatanna sighed before squeezing her eyes shut. She took a steadying breath in and let it slowly filter out her nose. Once she felt centered, she muttered, “tnemtnahcne esaec, lla srewop dna snoissessop esaeler. Tel og siht tsaeb.” She really hoped this worked. It had been two days since Dick had captured Etrigan, and every single thing she had tried had ended in failure up to this point. Nothing motivated like the possibility of not disappointing Superman again. Zatanna felt a pang of unease (and several other emotions) run through her stomach as she reflected on Superman’s face the last few times he’d asked for a progress-update. Ugh. But Superman’s approval wasn’t really why she was doing this. Bruce was important to her. Not only that, but he had a whole _family_ waiting for him to return. So yeah, there was that pressure too. 

“Ungh.” Zatanna startled, opening her eyes. The producer of said groan was none other than a humanized-Etrigan— Jason Blood. He blinked, exhaustedly, at her. 

“Holy fuck,” Zatanna whispered quietly, in awe. _She'd done it._

Jason held one hand up to his head and Zatanna rushed forward to help him sit down. “What happened?” he asked weakly. Zatanna sighed. _Where to start?_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Diana sighed pensively, glancing out the windows into the night. Though she couldn’t see him, she fancied that she could, and visualized Bruce, crouched somewhere over the city, cape flowing, scowl fixed in place. A frown formed on her lips and Diana stared into the dark more intently, thinking. Bruce hadn’t said anything to her, but she _knew_ something was going on. He had the same ticks as her husband had had. The quietness, the aura of rapid and frenetic thought, which meant that Bruce was scheming. And all Diana could do was wait. She was not a magic-user. She was no technician. She, as clever and wise and learned as she was, wasn’t brilliant enough to engineer a solution. So all she could do was wait, watch, and try to intervene if any part of this complex clockwork caught and tangled itself. She was not good at passivity, experienced as she was. But Diana would be ready if anything were to happen, because she’d be watching. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gently, gently, Zatanna had tried to press for details. But it proved impossible. Quietly, politely, Jason begged to have at least a few hours to sleep. And his desperate tone had inspired pity in her. Zatanna listened to Jason Blood talk as he devoured the food she’d obtained. The small details she did get made her both furious and more sympathetic. “I did not sleep, and rarely ate. He worked me, like I was his _slave_ , whenever he pleased. I did not know my own actions,” he had said, scowling. So Zatanna had granted him his rest, reluctantly. 

As she reflected on the pitiful, sleeping form of Jason Blood, she sighed. It had been the right decision, to postpone her questioning. Bad as Bruce’s situation was, it was not as acute as Jason Blood’s had been. Still though, knowing her decision was the right one had not helped her stop pacing in the halls as she waited for Jason to rest. She checked her watch. _Fifteen more minutes. She’d give him fifteen more minutes._

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce rubbed at his nose through the cowl to quell his growing headache. He was exhausted, almost woozy. It was nearly day-break again, and Klarion still hadn’t shown. Bruce sighed, and felt a brimming fury build in his stomach. “God _fucking_ damn it,” he hissed, straightening up. He felt ready to scream. To punch the stone wall until his fists were broken, bloody pulps on the end of his wrists. _“Why?” he wanted to scream at the universe_. Bruce gnashed his teeth and focused on keeping his clenched fists close by his side. They itched. 

_Five more minutes_. He’d give Klarion five more minutes and then figure out which way he was _not_ going to break down. Bruce momentarily shut his eyes behind the cowl’s lenses and sighed, feeling as old as the Earth. He was tired, so, so tired. _All I want to do_ , a small voice inside him admitted, _is to go home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zatanna's spell: “Enchantment cease, all powers and possessions release. Let go this beast.”


	31. How Do You Say ‘Thank You’ While Also Saying ‘Goodbye?’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce FINALLY meets with Klarion and Zatanna finally cracks the case... mostly. There are still a few problems to parse out. But it seems like Bruce will (finally) get home. This realization evokes feelings in pretty much everyone.
> 
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> "Alone alone alone  
> Guess it's what I am  
> Without you  
> So evident again  
> Stressing the emptiness  
> Is what I'll do today  
> And if I starve from this task  
> I'll regain my strength and have a drink to smoke through all the hallways that lead me nowhere"  
> — _Alone_ , Ana Curcin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say it with me, readers: " ~~Two~~ One more chapter ~~s~~!" Wow, hard to believe. 
> 
> FYI these last two are gonna be LONG ones! 
> 
> If anyone is an artist/knows one, I'd LOVE for someone to do illustrations for this fic!

Five minutes had come and gone by three (or four) times over. The sun had begun to rise, bathing the Metropolis sky in hues of pink, orange, and yellow. The clouds absorbed the colors enthusiastically, like blank paper to watercolors. In the distance, Bruce could just hear the beginning rumble of morning traffic. He stood wearily from his small perch. A yawn escaped his lips and Bruce had to steady himself against the building’s wall a moment as the world spun. 

For a brief second, he wondered whether it’d be worth the hassle— and embarrassment— to call Clark over and have him give Bruce a lift back. But then he reminded himself why that wasn’t a good idea: league headquarters were literally _just_ across the street. Batman could manage that, even if, deep down, Bruce just… _didn’t_ want to. Felt like he’d rather curl up right here and drop from exhaustion than maneuver across the street. Sighing wearily, and maybe _that_ was the reason he wanted Clark— for a dose of incessant optimism— Bruce aimed his grapple. Batman rarely liked the things he did, but he did them _anyway_. 

“Ye of little faith,” chastised an adolescent voice softly. Bruce stilled his hand, blinking. 

“Well it’s not like you actually showed up in three days,” he snapped, tone low. 

Klarion’s eyes flashed. Bruce tensed. But the boy merely chided, “Impatient, impatient, Batman. Haven’t you ever heard that good things come to those that wait?” _The things waited for have to be good in the first place_, Bruce snarked mentally. He snapped his mouth shut to stop himself from saying something that would drive Klarion off. He’d waited too damn long to let his over-tiredness destroy this opportunity. But, god, was it frustrating. Bruce blinked and forced himself to refocus. 

Teekl stretched from where he was perched on his master’s shoulder and leapt onto the ledge where Bruce was. The Witch Boy, following his cat, floated easily onto the ledge. Bruce awkwardly turned toward him; the ledge wasn’t big enough, even for only one boy, a man, and a cat. “Is there anywhere… less cramped?” Klarion asked with distaste. _Yes_ , Bruce thought moodily, _but you didn’t show up early enough for me to prepare._

“We can move to my lab,” he responded tersely, removing his teleport beacon. 

Moments later, the form of one Witch Boy, one Batman, and one maybe-cat vanish. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“And you’re absolutely certain that that’s the spell he used?” Zatanna asked Jason for probably the third time (it felt like the thirtieth). 

“As I have said before, I am certain. He used the Demon’s energy to meld with Brainiac’s technology, and the magic was cast through the mother box,” he replied quietly, “we are lucky it was not fatal…” 

Zatanna swallowed, a sharp feeling of gratitude for the universe’s discretion and a pang of fear over just _how lucky_ they’d been overwhelming her. “Yes,” she agreed simply, “let me call the others.” 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce walked to the light switch, keeping an eye on Klarion out of his peripheral vision the whole time. Teekl jumped onto the desk and was currently walking over the keyboard. Bruce snorts. _It seemed demon cats had some similarities to their mortal counterparts after all_. Like his familiar, the Witch Boy is touching things he shouldn’t be. He’s about to pick up a tear gas pellet when Bruce interrupts snappily: “That’s tear gas.” 

Klarion smoothly snatches his hand away. “Ah. I think I will refrain from my explorations for the time being…” Bruce lets out one minute sigh, rubbing at his head. 

“When will you be ready to share what you’ve found?” he asks, mustering as much patience as he possibly can. The task feels rather like someone has asked him to sing the Joker ‘Happy Birthday.’ Klarion claps his hands together for a moment. Teekl wanders off Bruce’s keyboard, leaping in that eerily-impossible way only he can onto his master’s shoulders. 

Klarion answers, cackling, “Yes! I looked into your magic problem, and it is a _doozy_. Evil-me is quite ingenious, if I do say.” 

Bruce reminds himself that murder is never an option as he takes a deep breath, and responds, “Yes, well… Do you have a _solution?_ ” 

Klarion nods, looking thoughtful. “Oh, I believe so. But it will require some testing.” 

Bruce barely stops himself from groaning. “Fine,” he growls, “tell me what you need.” 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After a bit of running-around, Zatanna has gathered the relevant members of the league: Superman, Wonder Woman, Cyborg, and Nightwing. Dick isn’t a league-member, but he hadn’t yet left the Watchtower. Nobody quite had the heart to tell him to leave, even if he was breaking about fifty rules of protocol. 

“Okay,” Zatanna encourages Jason, who is now out of the cell and in fresh clothes. “Tell them all what you told me… but, you know, less technical.” Jason turned to the league. Cyborg brought up a diagram of the broken device they’d recovered from Luthor. 

Jason begins, “Magic does not like technology. However, teleportation is a bit… different. The mother box technology isn’t of this world, which makes it easier to circumvent the technological problem. Additionally, more powerful magic users have a higher likelihood of being able to ‘crack’ the rules. Klarion alone would have just-about-enough power to do so, but even his spells may have gone awry. So my assistance simplified the task, and increased the likelihood of success.” Jason pauses, turning to Zatanna. 

“That’s right,” she picks up, “in this case, the old adage, ‘two brains are better than one’ is especially true. Thankfully, I already had a vague idea of which category of spell Klarion had used, and so with Jason’s help, we were able to reverse-engineer the spell. Now all that’s left is to rebuild the device…” Zatanna pauses, a brief flash of frustration moving over her face. 

“But?” Clark queried after a moment. 

“ _But_ ,” Zatanna continued, “if we have nothing to lock-in on, all our efforts will be useless. We’ll have to activate the device at the exact time that the other side casts the spell to send Bruce home.” There was absolute silence in the room as everyone processed. Wonder Woman frowned, Cyborg looked like he was running calculations, and Superman looked hesitant. 

Finally, he asked, “So what are the chances of things going right?” 

Zatanna sighed. “Well, they’re not great,” she said frankly, “but this is the only thing that’s even close to being guaranteed to work. Unless you want to give us another couple of months.” 

Superman grimaced. 

_Yeah, that’s what I thought_ , Zatanna concluded grimly. 

“Has anyone contacted Bruce about this yet?” Diana asked. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The first thing to do is to figure out exactly what kind of magical beastie my alternate cooked up,” Klarion said thoughtfully, tone cheerful. Bruce swallowed, and bit back a remark about not appreciating being a magical test-subject. 

“Fine. What does that entail?” he asked resignedly. 

“It’s simple,” Klarion answers, pacing, “I need to sacrifice a dozen virgins under a blood moon.” 

Bruce baulked, before realizing, _it was a joke_. He snapped, “Be serious!” 

Klarion chuckles, then responds, “Very well. It really is quite simple, though. I just need to cast a revealing spell, which should sort things out, given that it is _my own magic_ we’re looking at. I will need you to hold very still, Batman. If you get a bit dizzy, or faint, that is quite normal too.” 

Bruce stills. Klarion glances at his face. “Ready?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Bruce growls, impatient. _God, did he hate magic._

“Revelis magi, nuestre encante, spellios, charmis, de altae-mi,” Klarion mutters. 

Bruce felt a brief wave of cold wash over him, and then a wave of tingles run down his spine. Between the two sensations, it is very hard not to shiver. 

“Mm. I see,” mutters the Witch Boy pensively. Bruce blinks— he’d almost _fallen asleep_ , and he was appalled at himself. He wished that there was a clock within his visual range so he could tell how long they’d been there. Bruce watched Teekl approach, and start rubbing against Bruce’s leg. He repressed a huff, frustrated at the need to maintain perfect stillness. 

Absently, Klarion said, “Oh, you can move now, Batman. I just needed you to hold still while I scanned you for the magical leavings.” There was a hint of mocking humor in that statement that made Bruce grind his teeth and wish he didn’t need Klarion’s help so badly. He stalked past the Witch Boy to the computer and opened a Word document, planning to send it to Zatanna later. 

“What’d you find,” he growls. The beginnings of a yawn make it past Bruce’s lips before he presses his mouth shut. He can feel his already-gritty eyes starting to water. Klarion floats over— and Bruce had thought _Clark_ was annoying with his hovering— and mutters something over the computer. 

He turns to Bruce and supplies: “There is good news and bad news.” Bruce notices, distractedly, that words were appearing in the Word document as well. _A good spell to have_ , he thinks. Bruce forces his attention back to Klarion, who was waiting, a slightly amused expression on his face. 

“What is it?” Bruce presses, ignoring Klarion’s attitude. 

Klarion, looking thoughtful, plucked Teekl from the ground and started stoking the animal absently. “The spell is simple enough for me to dissect because it is my own work. The issue is the mechanism— it appears to be talisman-centered. And, as far as I can tell, you do not have a talisman, link, or even psychic connection that we can use,” Klarion explained. 

Though Bruce did, in reality, appreciate the straight-forward explanation, he also knew that Klarion was glossing over some of the details. It was frustrating (in a pride-wounding way) and it left an unpleasant taste in Bruce’s mouth, for Batman to be so woefully unknowledgeable in a subject. 

But, silently fuming, he set aside these feelings in favor of finding a solution. “You’re saying that we’re missing a part of the formula,” Bruce summarized. 

“Yes,” Klarion agreed. Bruce sighed, rubbing his eyes through the mask. _He’d need to think of another way to approach this then, because if he had to stay here with Klarion for much longer either he was going to fall flat on his face from exhaustion, or he was going do something very regrettable._

Bruce looked up at the Witch Boy and said, as sincerely as possible, but still firmly, “Thank you. I’ll pass this along to Zatanna. How soon can you be back here to meet her?” 

Klarion pouts for a moment, but after looking at Bruce’s expression, which threatened violence if not complied with, he answered sulkily, “I suppose next Wednesday will work. Tell Zatanna to expect me on the clock’s sixth strike after midnight.” With that, he muttered, “Disaparae,” and vanished. Teekl meowed once and also vanished. 

Bruce blinked a moment, and went to send his email, muttering, “Fucking magic.” 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Early the next morning, Clark receives an email. From Bruce. He is both happy to hear from his friend and alarmed at the time it was sent. It means he’s still up, and it probably means he’s feeling anxious, at the least. Clark yawns. While it is true that he usually worries about Bruce, this situation brings that to a whole new level. Clark had grown— if not used to— at least adjusted to the situation. But now, with the progress Zatanna’s made, and with Jason’s help, it feels… It feels like they’re reaching the end of a marathon, and it’s time to sprint across the finish. They are _so close_. So close to having a solution and Clark feels… helpless. For all his strength, speed, x-ray vision, he is useless. Bruce is on his own, surely twice as frustrated and trapped-feeling as he, and there is no comfort Clark can give him. He breathes out a sigh and turns to check his laptop. 

“I have contacted this universe’s Klarion to discuss my problem. While not exactly a league ally, he seems benevolent enough. Attached are his notes. Please forward to Zatanna, and let her know that I would like to discuss the matter with her directly. 

Thank you, B.” 

Clark snorts, a small smile flickering over his face. _God, this is so Bruce_. Even when the man was in another _universe_ , he couldn’t bring himself to be unprofessional. Clark fired off a quick response. 

“Got it. Thanks for the update. We have a lot going on here too. Get some sleep! 

S.” 

With that done, he shuts his laptop and went to finish getting ready for work. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Around nine a.m. Superman walked up to Batman’s door and knocked. It had been well-over a week since he’d last seen the other man and some instinct told Clark that Bruce wouldn’t be here much longer. He wanted to make sure he was okay, and selfishly, wanted to spend time with the man before he left forever. At this thought, Clark frowned. He felt torn— like his heart was whispering in double-speak. While it was true that Clark _did_ want Bruce to be able to return home, saw how important it was to his friend, he’d also grown used to Bruce’s presence again. And he was not looking forward of the pain of dealing with the hollowness of it again. A sudden thump sound jolted Clark from his less-than-pleasant thoughts. 

Bruce’s door swung open and the man himself squinted out at Clark. Bruce’s hair looked like he’d walked through a wind machine and he still had pillow line on the side of his face. Furthermore, he was looking at Clark in a way that clearly said ‘I need coffee,’ and his sweatpants were slung low over his hips, as if he’d thrown them on for decency. “Clark?” he asked, puzzled. 

Suddenly Clark wasn’t so sure about his plan. “I can come back later, if you want, Bruce,” he offered. 

Yawning, Bruce shook his head. “No. I’m up now. Let me get dressed,” he said, shutting the door. Clark tuned out his hearing to give his friend some space and leaned against the wall. A few minutes later, Batman emerged from his room. 

“What’d you want?” Bruce asked as he approached Clark. 

“Nothing really,” Clark said, feeling a bit sheepish now. “Just to catch up.” 

Despite his best efforts, Bruce couldn’t’ keep his snickering quiet. “Hey!” Clark objected. 

“ _Boy scout_ ,” Bruce grumbled semi-affectionately. He heads to the cafeteria. 

Once they’re seated, both dig into their food. Bruce turns to Clark. He looks marginally more alert after his first cup of coffee, though Clark can still see the dark bruising under his eyes. “So,” Bruce says, “what did you want to talk about to ‘catch up’?” 

Clark pauses. He hadn’t really thought this far. But he goes with his gut and offers: “how about you give me an update of hour things are going?” 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After breakfast, Bruce wanders aimlessly down the halls for a bit. It had been nice to see Clark. A voice interrupts his thoughts: “Br— Batman! Batman!” Bruce looked up. Zatanna was waving at him from down the hall. Bruce halted and waited for her to catch up. She did, and continued, “Finally. I was worried you were gonna miss me. Hi.” 

“Hello, Zee,” Bruce says with some amusement. She shoots him a look. 

“ _You_ were the one who wasn’t paying attention,” she scolds. Bruce shrugs. 

“Sorry… I’m still a bit tired. I met with Klarion last night,” Bruce says. 

Zatanna’s eyebrows arch. “How did _that_ go?” 

Bruce sighs. “It went. He seems to think he has a solution—” 

“—That’s excellent news, B!” Zatanna exclaims. Bruce gives her a quelling look. 

“I was going to say ‘to part of my problem.’ He thinks we’re missing a second part. Which brings me to something else. He said he wants to meet with you,” Bruce finishes. 

Zatanna’s eyebrows rise. “Alright. When?” 

Bruce sighs, before saying, “Wednesday, on the clock’s sixth strike after midnight is what he told me.” Zatanna looks as if she’ s puzzling out something for a bit and then nods. 

“Right. I’ll do that. But the reason I wanted to talk to you is that your Zatanna contacted me, and they think they have a break-through on their side. I think we should Skype or something and get everybody on the same page. What do you say?” she asks. 

Bruce hesitats a moment. He didn’t like the logistical headache of trying to arrange such a thing, or getting so many people involved in it at once, but he supposed as far as options went, it would have to do. “I think that sounds acceptable. Let me know what you need from me,” he says. 

Zatanna pats him on the shoulder. “Right. I better go get that set up then. See you around, B!” She strides off. Bruce turns around and continues on, mulling over recent events. He’s so distracted (and still, honestly a little tired) that he almost runs into Diana. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hello Batman,” Diana says. She hasn’t seen him in… quite a while. Bruce stills, looking a bit flustered from almost running into her. 

“Hello, Diana,” he says politely. Cautiously. Diana pauses. Bruce pauses. 

“Any progress…?” she asks, trailing off. _If there has been none, she does not want to upset Bruce. But if there has been progress…_

“Yes,” Bruce answers, pausing a moment, “in both universes, actually. I met with Klarion last night and Zatanna told me that my— my universe’s Zatanna contacted her to say they’ve made significant headway as well. In fact, she wants to arrange a group discussion sometime.” 

Diana startles a bit. _A group discussion? That sounded as if they had made significant progress. Like Bruce might actually make it home_. The thought left a sour aftertaste in her mouth, which in turn provoked a startled, base denial and surprise. Which was foolish. Foolish, foolish, foolish. She had known, once, that she could not keep him. Had promised herself, sworn, not to become attached again. And yet, here she was, sad over the unsurprising, the inevitable. Bruce would leave, and by doing so, Diana would be alone again. But somehow, she had forgotten her promise to herself and now found herself thinking _so soon_ with disappointment. 

Diana schooled her expression and forced herself to say, “That is excellent news. It sounds as if you will be home soon.” _And away from me_. But she scolded herself as the thought appeared. Because Batman was not hers. It was a good thing that he was not staying here. And Diana, despite her desires to keep Bruce here, knew that. A caged love was never a _free_ love. Diana would not have a caged love. No, it was better this way. 

Bruce offered a small smile, but it betrayed his excitement. “Yes,” he said. 

Diana smiled stiffly. Moved to turn away, feeling oddly sick. 

“Are you doing anything right now?” Bruce asked. Diana paused, heart pounding. 

“I was heading to monitor duty,” she responded. 

“Oh,” Bruce said neutrally, “I could go with you.” 

Diana nodded. “Yes. I think whoever else is on the roster would appreciate that.” 

“Good,” Bruce said, stepping to her side. This time, Diana’s smile was a little more genuine. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Four days later, Zatanna was feeling quite scatter-brained. She had just talked to her alternate— which was always a weird experience, even for her— and learned that first Batman and then she had met with Klarion. That universe’s Klarion, because this one’s would not have been as helpful. And it seemed that both sides were near a break-through. Or, more accurately, were waiting to connect their pieces of this convoluted inter-dimensional puzzle. 

Now her task was to help coordinate an inter-team meeting so they could finalize their plans. No biggie. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce felt itchy. Well, not really. But it was the most accurate description he could come up with for his emotional state at the moment. Somehow, again, he found himself with not much to do. Klarion had been talked to. Zatanna had been updated. So had Clark. Conceivably, there was not much else for Bruce to do. So, essentially, it was a waiting game. Which normally wouldn’t have bothered him— most of the time, Bruce actually _liked_ stake-outs, because they made the reward of getting the perp that much sweeter. But not in this case. Not now. He was so fucking sick of being caught in a place that was not his home. He missed Gotham, the league, _his family_ like they were the breath in his lungs. 

Sure, there were, perhaps, parts of this universe that he might miss: Clark… _Diana_ … but overall, not much else. Each day he found his impatience growing and it was struggle to see why he should even get up. Nobody needed Batman or Bruce Wayne here, after all. But Bruce knew that to give into this apathy would be… not good. So, scowling gloomily, he rose from his bed every day and at least tried to get to the lab. As Bruce knew, it was not always about feeling excited about the thing, but doing it, that mattered most. Bruce scowled over his coffee, and turned back to the computer. Yet, he wasn’t really focused on the screen, but on his last conversation with Diana: 

The first half hour of monitor duty had been tense, and silent. Bruce suspected that for once that was as much Diana’s fault as his. Finally, she’d asked quietly, “What do you plan to do, when you are home?” 

Bruce stilled in his chair. He hadn’t actually thought about that, not wanting to torture himself with could-bes if he wasn’t going to be able to return. But now… the chances of _going home_ were so much higher that he could allow himself to contemplate. “I think,” he mused, “I would like to thank Zatanna, Clark, Cyborg, and Diana. Well, my— the Diana from my universe.” Diana smiled at this. 

“And next?” she asked. 

Bruce thought a moment. “Hug my boys. Sleep in my own bed,” he said wistfully, slight, fond smile cracking his otherwise hard expression. Diana chortled. 

But then, Bruce saw her face abruptly turn serious. “Are you scared?” she asked, barely louder than the whir of the monitors. 

Bruce frowned. Stared at the screens ahead of him. _Was he scared? In the general sense, no. Because whatever happened, he wouldn’t be trapped here anymore_. But that in and of itself was a scary thought. And he was worried about leaving his sons, Alfred, his Clark, his Diana, alone. He was scared about the possibility of suddenly not existing. Just like that. Or, worse, appearing somewhere he shouldn’t. _That_ was scary. So the answer, then, was, “Yes.” 

Diana was silent for so long that Bruce thought she’d dropped the conversation. But then, she said, as if she’d considered the question quite at-length herself, “You cannot stay here, though. You have to go, eventually. I would, if our situations were reversed.” And the way she said it, with such icy logic, such dispassion, gave her away. Bruce felt a strange kind of warmth bloom in his stomach at her words. 

“Yes. You’re right,” he agreed simply, turning back to the monitors. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Diana do the same. 

And now, he was here, in the lab. With nothing to do but, apparently, chew over past conversations, make himself sick with worry. Because Diana had made evident the fact that he was worried. And anxious. And scared. And impatient. And it felt so overwhelming, that Bruce just wished he had something to do, so he could work past all these _feelings_. Because Bruce? Bruce was not good at dealing with emotions. He sighed and turned back to rereading the emails in his inbox. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day finally came for both teams to meet up. 

Zatanna, both of them, had figured out a way to set up a cross-dimensional link, somehow. Bruce assumed they had used the same magic that had been used to make his email work. His ‘team’ consisted of Superman, Wonder Woman, and Zatanna. No one had been able to persuade Klarion to make an appearance, though Zatanna had harangued him for a set of more-detailed notes on the magic used on Bruce. 

Bruce, somehow, was feeling even more tense than he had been in the previous days. As the connection was established, and he saw his friends on the screen, he knew why. Bruce was nervous because this was the first time he was seeing anyone from his universe since he’d been transported here. He swallowed, heart feeling like Flash had taken a hold of it and went running. Clark glanced back at him and Bruce offered him an awkward grimace. Clark raised an eyebrow but turned around. 

“Hello everyone,” Clark ( _his_ Clark) greeted. His eyes found Bruce in the back of the room, and he smiled, “Batman.” Bruce nodded, mouth too dry to speak. Clark’s attention turned back to the rest of the room, looking curious. “I don’t suppose we need to make introductions,” he said, chuckling, “so why don’t we get started?” Bruce’s eyes swept over the other room: there was Diana, Cyborg, Zatanna… and, his heart lurched, _Dick_. He let out a small choked breath, feeling his hands start to tremble a bit. Dick, who was staring, had been waiting for Bruce to notice that he was here. Clark’s voice suddenly turned into background noise. 

Dick smiled, asked with the slight tilt of his head: “How are you?” and Bruce answered with a slight shrug: “About as good as I can be, given the situation.” Dick grinned, a quick, bright flash of light that went right through Bruce’s chest. _And goddamnit_ , he felt his eyes tearing up. Fuck, but Bruce just wanted to stride across the room and _hug his son_. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, to stop the twitch in his hands which betrayed his desire to reach out. 

“—Batman, what do you think?” asked Clark, the one standing in the room with him. Bruce stiffened, alarmed at being so caught out. 

Despite his best efforts, Bruce’s voice still came out huskily. “I’m sorry?” he asked. Clark, unsurprisingly, didn’t call him out on it. 

“How do you feel about aiming for next Tuesday?” he repeated patiently. 

Bruce did the mental calculations. _That was five days from now_. “Yes,” he heard himself say, from a distance, “that will be fine.” Dick offered him a quick, supportive grin. Bruce smiled back. 

“Very well,” Clark said, “we have our goal then. Next Tuesday, the 28th at 13:00.” 

“Correct,” said Clark. He turned around and asked, “Zatanna?” She nodded and stepped forward. 

Just before the connection cut, Dick called out, “Bye, Bruce!” 

“Bye, Dick,” Bruce echoed. His whole being felt like one large papercut into which salt had been poured. He swallowed convulsively, realizing that he was the last one in the room. He huffed and went to the door. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If Bruce had been any different, he would have expected the next five days to pass by as slowly and uneventfully as the days leading up had. But they weren’t, and they hadn’t. There was (unsurprisingly) much to do in preparation. Zatanna needed to study the magical traces on Bruce to adjust her enchantments. Cyborg needed to talk to Bruce about some of the more technical adjustments to the mother box. Clark and Diana were on a renewed, frenzied search for Luthor (but not Brainiac, who, according to Jason, had retreated when he’d learned that his plan had failed). 

Bruce had Alfred send him a copy of his will in the dead of the night, just in case. He had to accept the very real possibility that he would die, or simply cease to exist, next Tuesday. He swallowed convulsively again at the thought. 

There was also his room to deal with. Bruce usually kept a clean space. However, he’d been stuck in this one practically since the beginning of this ordeal. And there was only so much he could do. So Bruce was working on cleaning so Clark and Diana wouldn’t have to once he was gone. _So it could go back to being a mausoleum for their Batman_ , Bruce thought, shuddering slightly. God, he knew how Jason felt now. 

And lastly, there were Clark and Diana. Of this universe. Bruce did not quite know how to approach the subject of saying goodbye to them. When he thought of it, he felt a pang of… loss. And Bruce was not good at handling loss. When he thought of them, he felt unbelievable gratitude. They had supported him and cared for him like he was _their_ Bruce since almost day one. That was an overwhelming act of kindness. And now he was leaving, forever, one way or another. How did one say ‘thank you’ while also saying ‘goodbye?’ He didn’t know. And that was the problem, because one way or another, his time was running out. 

Finally, he decided that a lunch the day before he is supposed to leave is the best option. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He, Clark, and Diana grab lunch from the cafeteria and then retreat to an empty meeting room. The room is bright, with reinforced glass windows on three sides. _Must be for press conferences_ , Bruce thinks. He almost wants to squint. As an out-of-the-way meeting place for three almost-friends, it is excellent. They sit at one of the round tables and begin eating. There is (not-quite peaceful, not-quite tense) silence, except for the clink of silverware. 

Finally, Bruce says, subdued, “I wanted to thank you two.” 

“For what?” Clark asks. Bruce snorts affectionately. 

“‘For what,’ Clark, really? For _everything_. This has been… one of the _hardest_ things that I’ve dealt with… and I honestly don’t now what would have happened if you hadn’t supported me—both of you. Whatever happens, I just wanted to make that clear,” Bruce says firmly. 

There is surprised silence after his statement. Bruce looks awkwardly down at the table, tracing the grains of wood with his eyes. Finally, Diana responds, “It was no hassle, I assure you. I am sure you would have done the same if our places were reversed.” She places a hand over his. After a moment, so does Clark. Bruce smiles. 

“Yes. But still… _thank you_.” Diana smiles. So does Clark. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The last thing Bruce does is write an email. Just in case he doesn’t make it. Or is transported somewhere else. Or simply ceases to exist. He writes an email, just in case one of the many multitude of things that can go wrong _does_. He sends it to Alfred, his first, his most-trusted companion. Alfred will make sure it is sent to all who need it, will make sure they understand it. Bruce writes: 

_Tomorrow, I will step into the void, and I don’t know if my journey will be successful or not. In case it is not, I have written this. But, Clark, Diana, Zatanna, Jason, and anyone else who may be reading this, I do not blame you. If it is anyone’s fault, it is Luthor’s. Or Klarion’s. Or Brainiac’s. There is no fault with anyone else— I am, was, incredibly grateful to everyone for their persistence. It often felt like a hopeless situation, and I sometimes feared that we would never even progress this far. But we did, and that is what I will remember. I want you (Clark, Diana) to tell the league Batman was proud to save the world with them, and that it was an honor to be in the League. And please, talk to Alfred. He’ll explain further._

_Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian: Don’t despair. I want you to move on with your lives, and continue to grow and be the strong, brave, compassionate people I know you to be. There was nothing you could have done, so don’t torture yourselves with ‘what ifs;’ I know from experience that it never does any good. Each of you has a unique gift. Use it, work together, and I know Gotham, and the world, will be in good hands. I may not have said it enough, but know that I was always proud of you. All of you. If you seek to honor my life, do it in this way: live, protect each other, and watch over Gotham. Take care of Alfred. He has more for you. Thank you for being in my life._

_Alfred: There is neither enough time nor words to express my deep gratitude and indebtedness to you, old friend. So I’ll keep it simple— thank you for all that you’ve done. I would be a much lesser man without your continual wise guidance. Now, I must apologize for leaving you. And for leaving you with so much to do. But still, thank you. I am sorry, old friend._

_Bruce._

By the time he was done typing, Bruce found it strangely hard to see. He felt choked up, and had to take several deep breaths to regain control. He quickly reread his letter, and then, feeling a sharp stab of finality, sent it. He stared into space for a few minutes after, then shook his head and forced himself to stand. He walked through the mostly-empty halls of the League Headquarters to his room, and prepared for the next morning. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, the _waiting_ , was horrible. Bruce felt as if he would throw up, or like his brain would burst from his body, with how rapid-fire his thoughts raced. While it wasn’t the worst thing he’d experienced, it definitely made the top ten. The last time he’d felt like this, Bruce recalled, was while he had been waiting for Clark to come out of surgery for injuries from kryptonite. He shuddered again. There was a knock on his door. It was Clark and Diana. Bruce tried not to feel like he was being escorted to his execution. 

“Ready?” Clark asked, looking about as nervous as Bruce felt. Bruce, not sure if his words would be reliable, nodded. Diana squeezed his hand briefly and let go. Bruce grimaced. Clark turned around and lead the way. Bruce shut the door to his room, not looking back. 

They reached the room where Zatanna was waiting and Bruce’s apprehension climbed more that he’d thought possible. Zatanna looked up, calm façade in place. Bruce was oddly grateful. He swallowed. Gave Zatanna a look. “It’s just about time. I don’t want to cause alarm, but you might want to say your goodbyes,” she said gently, sympathetically. Bruce nodded jerkily, and turned to Clark and Diana. 

Clark reached out for a hug, and for once, Bruce let him. In fact, he might have hugged back, might have (figuratively) crushed _Clark_. Clark smiled, stepping aside. Diana came forward, eyes not watering, but near it. Bruce gave her a more delicate hug, and she pecked his cheek once, then withdrew. Bruce swallowed. “I guess this is it… thank you again for everything. If this doesn’t work… don’t blame yourselves.” He turned to head towards Zatanna. 

“If it does work, can you find some way— some way to let us know?” Diana questioned. 

Bruce hesitated a moment. He looked over his shoulder, meeting her eyes. “Yes,” he affirmed. Both Clark and Diana looked relieved. Bruce turned towards Zatanna. 

She met his eyes and flashed a quick smile. “Ready?” she asked. 

Bruce huffed, not quite enough energy behind it to be called a laugh. “As much as I’ll ever be. Thank you, Zatanna.” She smiled again. 

Turning to Clark, she asked, “Count down?” 

Clark looked at his watch, which had been carefully synched with the Watchtower’s clocks. “Five, four, three, two, one…” 

“Nomed tab eb enog, enog ot eht mlaer uoy llac emoh. Tab nomed evael, hsinav morf siht dnal uoy od ton wonk. Nam yeht llac ‘Eht Tab’ raeppasid. Og emoh,” Zatanna chanted. A strange darkness crackled through the room. Clark looked a bit pale. Bruce blinked, took one look around him. His skin prickled, like thousands of tiny shocks were running all along his body, and a brilliant, blinding, all-encompassing flash of white light shorted out Bruce’s vision. And then, nothing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what Zatanna chants:  
> “Demon bat be gone, gone to the realm you call home. Bat demon leave, vanish from this land you do not know. Man they call ‘the Bat’ disappear. Go home."


	32. Home, Sweet Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long time gone, Bruce is finally, finally, finally _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It feels like we started at the end of a story […]  
> Tell me, why are we still saying "I'm sorry"  
> For the things that we left behind?"  
> — _I'm Not Sorry,_ Meg Meyers

Clark hovered anxiously over Metropolis above the cloud layer, about 40,000 feet up. He took another deep breath (Bruce always said it was supposed to help him, when he got upset) and scanned the skies. His heart beat nervously in his chest, and Clark tried to ignore the nausea tugging at his stomach. _Bruce would scoff at him if he were here_. Clark checked his watch again— twenty two seconds until 13:00— and floated up a little higher, listening for any sign of Batman. Around the world, the others were doing the same. 

Although many JL members had time traveled, none had done it quite like Bruce had, and so no one was quite sure what would happen if— _when_ — he came back. After the deadline had been agreed upon, there had been a long and in-depth league meeting to decide how to go about retrieving Batman once he was back in this universe. Generally, people reappeared where they’d disappeared (it seemed the Universe liked cleaning up its messes like that) but still. No one wanted to take that chance with Batman. So the solution had been to station league-members around the globe and wait. 

Clark was stationed above Metropolis, so if Bruce fell out of the sky, Superman could catch him (Batman had been in a plane when he’d been transported, so it was likely that he’d reappear mid-air). Diana was stationed in Gotham, in case it was a connection to home that mattered to the spell; one could never tell with magic. Cyborg was aboard the Watchtower keeping an eye on the global news cycle and any surveillance equipment he could in case Batman _didn’t_ appear in Gotham or Metropolis for some reason. 

J’ohn was also aboard the Watchtower, but he was the one manning the device to bring Bruce home. It had been a heart-wrenching decision to not do it himself, but Clark knew that it was best that the fastest and the strongest waited where it was most likely that Bruce would reappear. And that was him. Also, there was a part of him that _wanted_ to be the one to catch Bruce, to make sure his friend was okay. And if someone else had to be the one to push the button, Clark trusted no one more than J’ohn to do it. J’ohn after all, was calm, professional, and regularly manned the entire Watchtower by himself. The Martian was fully capable of performing this duty. Still, a part of Clark felt anxious and upset that _he_ wasn’t there, that _he_ wasn’t the one pushing that fateful button… 

Clark shook his head and snapped out of it. He checked his watch again— five seconds. Superman took one last deep breath in and stilled. He looked— not that there was anyone around to see— like a marble statue floating in the air, the way his body was held in absolute stillness and tension. Clark counted down in his head: _four, three, two, one…_

Across the city, by the bay, there was a strange _warping_ of the sky. And then there was the sonic boom. _There_ , Clark thought, heart in his throat. He dove. 

Sure enough, there was Batman, falling through the air in a _very_ uncontrolled manner. His cape was streaming upwards, and he was tumbling towards the ground limply. Clark frowned, concerned. He checked Bruce’s heartrate and _oh, he was unconscious_. 

That surprised Superman a little, and made his concern for his friend increase, but he supposed it wasn’t that unexpected. Inter-universal travel certainly taxed the body, he supposed. _Still_ , Clark thought, _it’s probably best if I can get Batman home quickly. Just in case_. He darted forward and scooped Bruce up in his arms. 

As he decelerated, Clark couldn’t help but smiling down at his friend, saying wistfully, “Welcome home.” 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing he was aware of was the soft bed he was lying in. Unfortunately, even the world’s softest bed couldn’t do much for him right now— Bruce felt as if he had gone ten rounds with a mind-controlled Clark. His _entire body_ felt like one massive bruise. Consequentially, he was also quite stiff. Although Bruce found that he didn’t want to complain too much, as at least he wasn’t _dead_. Bruce blinked open his eyes. Despite the fact that it was very pleasant not to be dead, that still left the question of where he was. 

Bruce groaned a bit as he sat up, and then tensed. His mouth felt very dry, but he swallowed anyway, and felt his pulse spike… because it looked like he was _home_ , in _his_ bedroom in the _manor_. But, he clamped down on his excitement and took another critical look around. As he’d learned both from this experience and from his time as Batman, things were often _not_ what they seemed to be. For all he knew, he could be in another strange and terrible universe. Being caught unawares was not an option. Still, he felt a pang go through him because it looked _so much like home_. 

Suddenly, there was an incredibly loud shout from somewhere down the hall. A shout that sounded awfully like Clark. And following that was the sound of many pairs of feet pounding over the carpet. Bruce swallowed, feeling as if his heart was going to fly out of his throat. He pushed aside his blankets and moved to the edge of the bed. His door flew open with a bang and there was Clark. 

Bruce swallowed thickly and _stared_ at his friend. Clark’s face lit up, brighter than any sunrise, and suddenly, Bruce was being crushed (almost literally) by Superman. Bruce couldn’t breathe that well, or see, but it didn’t matter. His chest tightened and it was oddly hard to see. “BRUCE!” Clark exclaimed, and Bruce choked out a laugh. And then, abruptly, Clark stepped back. And there were his boys, the whole gaggle of them, and Alfred. 

Jason leaned against the doorframe, an odd gleam in his eyes, Dick was staring at him, grinning, Damian’s eyes were wide, Tim was crying, and Alfred looked as if he were trying not to cry. _And goddamnit, now he was crying. If this was another, more horrible, alternate universe and Bruce was about to die at least he’d seen his family again_. It seemed to be his tears that made it acceptable to move. Dick leapt across the room and bounced onto the bed and wordlessly enveloped Bruce gently in his arms. Jason walked forward and stood at his right side, shoving at him and Dick to move over. He gave Bruce an awkward half-hug and said, “It’s good to have you home, old man.” 

Bruce chuckled, watery, and grabbed Jason to give him a proper hug. The boy— young man— didn’t seem to mind. And then Tim flung himself onto the bed and wrapped his arms around Bruce’s back, sniffing. Bruce could feel the tears coating his neck, but he didn’t care, not one bit. 

“We missed you,” Tim whispered. 

He sniffed, and moved to wipe his eyes. “I missed you all too,” Bruce murmured gruffly. And now, it was just Damian and Alfred by the door. 

Alfred crouched down and gave Damian a gentle push. “Go say hello to your father, Master Damian,” Alfred said gently. Damian, impressively, took two or three normal steps forward before abandoning the façade, and flung himself onto Bruce’s lap. Bruce laughed, and squeezed his youngest son tight. 

After a moment, Damian squawked, “ _Fa-ther!_ ” Bruce chuckled. 

“Just let me hold you a bit longer, Son, and then I’ll let you up,” Bruce said, feeling _years_ lighter. Damian huffed, but didn’t try to squirm away. Behind him, Dick laughed, and even Jason rumbled. 

“Softie,” Tim teased. Alfred, who had moved to stand beside Clark, smiled. 

“It is _good_ to have you home, Sir,” he said, rare smile on his face. Bruce’s eyes crinkled. 

“It is good to be home, Al.” 

With one last shuddering sigh, Bruce pushed away at his children. He turned his gaze towards Clark and tried to quiet his racing heart. “While I’d like to believe that I _am_ home, you understand I can’t quite believe that yet. And if this is some other alternate-universe, if you’re going to kill me, you might as well get on with it,” he said firmly. 

Clark looked taken aback and even took one halted step backwards. “We’re NOT going to KILL YOU! You’re home, Bruce,” Clark said. 

And Clark’s aghastness at that thought, that reassured Bruce somewhat. But he still needed more proof. 

“Then take me to the Watchtower,” he said patiently. 

“What’s the Watchtower?” Jason asked. Bruce paled. 

Dick smacked the back of Jason’s head hard enough to make him exclaim, “Ow! What the _hell_ , Dickhead?” 

Firmly, Dick locked eyes with Bruce and said, “Don’t listen to him. He’s just trying to mess with you. Go ahead and do what you need to do, Bruce. We’ll be here after.” And that was good enough for him. Bruce nodded gratefully at Dick and stood, turning to Clark. 

“Let me get changed, Clark, and then we can head up,” Bruce told his friend. Clark smiled. 

“Sure thing, B.” Bruce nodded at his friend. 

Clark followed Bruce, maintaining a respectful distance, down to the cave. Bruce quickly inspected the space with a scan of his eyes, and was almost overcome again, at seeing the space. _So different than that other world,_ he couldn’t help but think. He pushed past that thought and strode over to where the suit was usually kept. As he was reaching for it, he hesitated. _That wasn’t his suit… it was the other Bruce’s_. A feeling of revulsion shot through him and this time he did shudder. Clark noticed. 

“Something wrong?” he asked sharply. 

Bruce strode toward the locker with his spare suit. “No,” he said firmly, hoping that Clark would take the hint. Surprisingly, he did. Bruce made a mental note to deal with the other suit… somehow. Finally, he was ready. Clark called up for a transport. The cave disappeared. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The pair of them materialized aboard the Watchtower and Bruce couldn’t help but run one hand over the walls both out of fondness and out of a base need to reassure himself that he was actually _here_. He swallowed thickly once again. This time Clark asked firmly, “Bruce. Is something wrong?” 

“No, Clark. Just… different that where I was. I’ll tell you about it— later,” Bruce answered tiredly, imagining how well _that_ would go. They’d probably try to put him in therapy after that. Clark hesitated longer this time before seeming to come to the (rightful) conclusion that he wasn’t going to get anything more out of Batman at the moment. 

“Alright then. But I’m gonna hold you to it,” he said, trying for a light tone. But Bruce heard the firmness of that statement and resigned himself to dealing with it later. 

“Fine. Just take me to the computers,” he said. Clark obliged. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce sat and immediately performed a search of all the recent newsworthy events from the past few months. Superman hovered a few feet behind him, somewhere to the left. After a few long, silent minutes, Batman nodded to himself. It wasn’t perfect— nothing ever was— but it would have to do for now. It seemed that he was home, or it was at least a very convincing simulation of home. He’d just have to keep his awareness until proven otherwise. 

“Satisfied?” asked Clark teasingly. But his eyes betrayed him. Bruce nodded. Clark smiled. “Good! There’s some people who will want to see you, I imagine.” Despite himself, Bruce felt the corner of his mouth quirking up. Yes, he imagined there were. And he wanted to see at least some of them as well. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment Batman and Superman walked into the Founder’s Meeting Hall, Batman was swarmed. Five voices all started speaking at once. Bruce held up his hand, both flattered and a little overwhelmed. There was immediate silence. 

“To answer your most pressing question,” he said dryly, to numerous soft chuckles, “I am fine. And yes, it is good to be back.” With that, the room seemed to calm, and everyone stopped trying to mob him. Diana had a faintly amused smile on her face. And speaking of Diana… Bruce’s heart lurched in his chest a bit. _Speaking of Diana, he needed to talk to her_. 

After the initial excitement (and some poorly-endured hugs or back pats) Bruce begged off, stating that his children (and Gotham) needed looking after. He slipped out of the room, and barely noticed Clark following him. It was faintly amusing, if also infuriating. 

He stopped just down the hall from the meeting room and spun to face Clark silently. His friend had a pensive look on his face. “Hey,” he said. 

Quirking a brow, Bruce responded, “Hi.” Clark chuckled briefly at this, but his face soon turned serious again. 

“I just wanted to say how happy I am that you’re home one more time before I let you go… for now,” Clark said, giving Bruce a ‘we’ll talk about this later’ look. Bruce huffed, but felt more of a fond annoyance at his friend than real annoyance. 

So he decided to be diplomatic. “Thank you. And let me also say once again, it’s good to be home.” 

Clark patted his arm once. “See you around, B.” Bruce nodded, walking back to the teleporters. 

Now to deal with other matters regarding his return. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Four days after sending Batman— the other Batman— off into the void, a text appeared on Clark’s phone: _“I’m home.”_ Grinning, Clark flew out of his room, shouting, “DIANA!” 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks later, Bruce had finally resettled into his routine. Just last weekend, he’d had his first patrol back out in Gotham, and he was still in a good mood from it. While there were still things to do, and he would certainly be dealing with the repercussions of his time ‘away’ for a while, things were mostly settled back to normal. And, for once, Bruce would have had it no other way. He still had massive amounts of ‘Brucie’ work to catch up on, along with W.E. work and casework, but it felt… good to be back. Yes, he also had yet to talk to Clark about his time ‘away,’ but that too was at least something normal. The other man always wanted Bruce to talk about his ‘feelings,’ despite how long he’d know Bruce. But Bruce found himself smiling at the (usually aggravating) thought anyway, because it was such a _Clark_ thing to do. 

But, there _was_ one more unavoidable thing that Bruce found himself putting off anyway. He closed his eyes and tried to center himself before pulling up the cowl. His fingers tapped over the keyboard and his eyes skimmed the screen: the JL monitor duty for the week in front of him. And yes, Diana should just be finishing up right now. Bruce found himself growing nervous, and forcefully reminded himself, _you can’t avoid her. It wouldn’t be right. And Diana— the other one— would have wanted you to do this. You were married for fuck’s sake. You want this, and at this point, it’s too late to deny it any longer_. 

And it was true, too. Bruce was _caught_. Like an animal in a trap, a fish on a hook, a fox in a hound’s mouth. Trapped. Both he and Diana had felt the sexual tension for years. At some point, they may have done something about it… if Bruce hadn’t spurned any and all advances so absolutely, so determinedly, so coldly. If, after that, life hadn’t gotten in the way. Oh yes, the tension was still there, even now, but it had reached… an equilibrium of sorts. Now it would take force to unbalance it, one way or another. Bruce intended to be that force. He just hoped it wasn’t too late. 

He hoped it wasn’t too late because, he had to admit to himself, he’d caught… feelings for Diana. Over there, in the other universe. Yes, it wasn’t _his_ Diana, but it was _Diana_. Her face, her voice. Her body. Diana. And he’d already been inclined toward the Amazon before meeting an alternate version of her with whom _his_ alternate had been married. 

Bruce had not been in love— real, deep, tangled-up, captured love— very often. Perhaps three or so times. And every one of those times had been devastating. Worse, Bruce knew he was damaged goods. He didn’t want to inflict himself on Diana. But… he couldn’t see a way forward other than confessing his (growing) feelings for the Amazon. Couldn’t see how he could stay neutral, aloof from her, any longer. So, he felt his hand was forced. 

And he was… lonely. After knowing what the other-him had had, god, it made him feel so lonely. That life, that his alternate had had. Lonely. _And Bruce was weak. He had always been so weak_. 

Bruce took one fortifying breath before standing and activating his teleport beacon. 

Moments later, he was striding down hall towards the monitor room. Sure enough, Diana was just exiting the doors. Her footsteps echoed softly in the empty, metal hall. “Diana,” Bruce said, barely above a normal volume. But for Batman, that was like shouting. More so in the empty hall. She turned sharply, one brow arched inquisitively. 

“Yes, Batman?” she asked calmly. 

_You want this_ , Bruce reminded himself. He took one breath, before meeting her eyes. “We need to talk.” 

_**Finis** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. For a woman who's just written a 32 chapter (54,718 word) fic, I feel... speechless. I just can't say enough how overwhelmed and happy I feel because of the immensely positive responses I've gotten for this fic. When this started out as just an inkling of an idea (almost) a year ago, I never could have imagined it'd turn into this. I never could have imagined that something _I_ wrote would have 3,218 (and counting) hits. But, thanks to all you, it has.
> 
> This has been a real journey, and I have enjoyed (and struggled) writing this beast of a fic. I hope you all have had as much fun with it and gotten as much enjoyment out of it as I have. I WILL be writing other things, and will probably have other long series as well, but I have a feeling that this one will always be one of my favorites. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! Hope you choose to check out my other stuff as well.


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